THE  MAKING  OF  A  SAINT 


'AS    I    RODE    ALONG,    I    MEDITATED." 


(See  page  145) 


W.  SOMERSET  MAUGHAM 

Author  of  *•  The  Moon  and  Sixpence,"  •*  Of  Hum 


Illustrated  by 
GILBERT  JAMES 


BOSTON 
THE  ST.  BOTOLPH  SOCIETY 


53  Beacon  Street 


Copyright,  1898 
BY  THE  PAGE  COMPANY 


•  ':All  rights  reserved 


Made  in  U.  S.  A. 


New  Edition   M->rrh.  1022 


PRINTED  BY   C.  H.   SIMONDS    COMPANY 
BOSTON,  MASS.,  U.S.A. 


Quanta  e  bella  giovinezza^ 

Che  si  fugge  tuttavia  ; 
Chi  vuol  esser  lieto,  sia, 

Di  doman  non  c'e  certezza. 

Youth  —  how  beautiful  is  youth  ! 

But,  alas,  elusive  ever! 
Let  him  be  light  of  heart  who  would  be  so, 

For  there's  no  surety  in  the  morrow. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGB 

"  As  I  RODE  ALONG,  I  MEDITATED  "    .          Frontispiece 

"  *  You  NEED  HAVE  No  FEAR  ABOUT  YOUR  CHAR- 
ACTER/ I  ANSWERED,  BITTERLY"  .  .  .113 

"Ix  WAS  EMPTY  BUT  FOR  A  FEW  RAPACIOUS 
MEN,  WHO  WERE  WANDERING  ABOUT,  LIKE 
SCAVENGERS  " . 223 

"!N  A  BOUND  I  HAD  REACHED  HIM"         .        .    329 


INTRODUCTION. 

THESE  are  the  memoirs  of  the  B,eato;  'Gialiano, 
brother  of  the  Order  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,.,knr)wa 
in  his  worldly  life  as  Filippo  Brandolini,  of  which 
family  I,  Giulo  Brandolini,  am  the  last  descendant. 
On  the  death  of  Fra  Giuliano,  the  manuscript  was 
given  to  his  nephew,  Leonello,  on  whom  the  estates 
devolved,  and  has  since  been  handed  down  from 
father  to  son,  as  the  relic  of  a  member  of  the  family 
whose  piety  and  good  works  still  shed  lustre  on  the 
name  of  Brandolini. 

It  is,  perhaps,  necessary  to  explain  how  the  resolu- 
tion to  give  these  memoirs  to  the  world  has  eventu- 
ally been  arrived  at.  For  my  part,  I  should  have 
allowed  them  to  remain  among  the  other  papers  of 
the  family ;  but  my  wife  wished  otherwise.  When 
she  deserted  her  home  in  the  New  World  to  become 
the  Countess  Brandolini,  she  was  very  naturally  inter- 
ested at  finding  among  my  ancestors  a  man  who  had 
distinguished  himself  in  good  works,  so  as  to  be 
granted  by  the  Pope  the  title  of  Beatus,  which  was 
acquired  for  him  by  the  influence  of  his  great-nephew 

ii 


1 2  INTROD  UdTION. 

not  very  long  after  his  death ;  and,  indeed,  had  our 
house  retained  the  prosperity  which  it  enjoyed  dur- 
ing the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  he  would, 
undoubtedly,  have  been  canonised,  for  it  was  a  well 
certified  fact  that  the  necessary  miracles  had  been 
performed  by  his  remains,  and  that  prayers  had 
been  regularly  offered  at  his  tomb,  but  our  estates 
nad  dwindled,  so  that  we  could  not  afford  the  neces- 
sary expenditure ,  and  now,  when  my  wife  has  re- 
stored its  ancient  magnificence  to  our  house,  times, 
alas !  have  changed.  The  good  old  customs  of  our 
fathers  have  fallen  into  disuse,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
create  a  saint  for  ready  money.  However,  my  wife 
desired  to  publish  an  account  of  her  pious  ancestor. 
But  a  difficulty  arose  in  the  fact  that  there  were  no 
materials  whatever  for  any  relation  of  the  life  which 
Fra  Giuliano  led  when  he  had  entered  the  Franciscan 
monastery  of  Campomassa,  and  it  was  obvious  that, 
even  if  there  had  been  good  works,  prayer  and  fast- 
ing could  not  have  afforded  a  very  interesting  story ; 
and  so  we  have  been  constrained  to  leave  untold  his 
pieties,  and  recount,  instead,  his  sins,  for  which  there 
was  every  facility  in  the  memoirs  he  had  himself  left 
behind  him. 

Not  content  with  writing  the  story  of  his  own  life, 
Fra  Giuliano  begins  with  a  mythical  Consul  of  the 
Roman  Republic,  who  is  supposed  to  have  founded 
the  family  by  a  somewhat  discreditable  union  with 


INTRODUCTION.  1 3 

somebody  else's  wife.  He  then  carries  the  story 
through  countless  ages  till  he  arrives  at  his  own  con- 
ception, and  the  prodigies  attending  his  birth,  which 
he  describes  with  great  minuteness.  He  gives  very 
amply  the  history  of  his  childhood  and  boyhood,  the 
period  he  spent  as  page  at  the  Court  of  the  Benti- 
vogli  of  Bologna,  and  his  adventures  in  the  Neapoli- 
tan armies  under  the  Duke  of  Calabria;  but  the 
whole  story  is  narrated  at  such  length,  with  so  many 
digressions  and  details,  and  is  sometimes  so  vague, 
incoherent,  and  disjointed  that,  with  whatever  edit- 
ing, it  was  considered  impossible  to  make  a  clear 
and  continuous  narrative. 

Fra  Giuliano  himself  divided  his  life  into  two 
parts :  the  one  he  named  the  Time  of  Honey,  being 
the  period  of  expectation ;  the  other  the  Time  of 
Gall,  being  that  of  realisation.  The  second  half 
commences  with  his  arrival  at  the  town  of  Forli,  in 
the  year  1488,  and  it  is  this  part  which  we  have 
decided  to  publish  ;  for,  notwithstanding  its  brevity, 
this  was  the  most  eventful  period  of  his  life,  and  the 
account  of  it  seems  to  hang  together  in  a  sufficiently 
lucid  fashion,  centring  around  the  conspiracy  which 
resulted  in  the  assassination  of  Girolamo  Riario,  and 
finishing  with  the  author's  admission  to  the  Order  of 
St.  Francis.  This,  then,  I  have  given  exactly  as  he 
wrote  it,  neither  adding  nor  suppressing  a  word.  I 
do  not  deny  that  it  would  have  pleased  me  a  little 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

to  falsify  the  history,  for  the  Anglo-Saxons  are  a  race 
of  idealists,  as  is  shown  in  all  their  dealings,  inter- 
national and  commercial ;  and  truth  they  have  always 
found  a  little  ugly.  I  have  a  friend  who  lately  wrote 
a  story  of  the  London  poor,  and  his  critics  were 
properly  disgusted  because  his  characters  dropped 
their  aitches,  and  often  used  bad  language,  and  did 
not  behave  as  elegantly  as  might  be  expected  from 
the  example  they  were  continually  receiving  from 
their  betters ;  while  some  of  his  readers  were 
shocked  to  find  that  people  existed  in  this  world 
who  did  not  possess  the  delicacy  and  refinement 
which  they  felt  palpitating  in  their  own  bosoms.  The 
author  forgot  that  Truth  is  a  naked  lady,  and  that 
nudity  is  always  shameful,  unless  it  points  a  moral. 
If  Truth  has  taken  up  her  abode  at  the  bottom  of  a 
well,  it  is  clearly  because  she  is  conscious  that  she  is 
no  fit  companion  for  decent  people. 

I  am  painfully  aware  that  the  persons  of  this 
drama  were  not  actuated  by  the  moral  sentiments, 
which  they  might  have  acquired  by  education  at  a 
really  good  English  public  school,  but  one  may  find 
excuse  for  them  in  the  recollection  that  their  deeds 
took  place  four  hundred  years  ago,  and  that  they 
were  not  wretched  paupers,  but  persons  of  the  very 
highest  rank.  If  they  sinned,  they  sinned  elegantly, 
and  much  may  be  forgiven  to  people  whose  pedigree 
is  above  suspicion.  And  the  writer,  as  if  unwilling 


INTRO  D  UCTION.  1 5 

to  wound  the  susceptibilities  of  his  readers,  has  taken 
care  to  hurl  contempt  at  the  only  character  whose 
family  was  distinctly  not  respectable. 

Before  making  my  bow,  and  leaving  the  reader 
with  Filippo  Brandolini,  I  will  describe  his  appear- 
ance, shown  in  a  portrait  painted  in  the  same  year, 
1488,  and  till  the  beginning  of  this  century  in  the 
possession  of  my  family,  when  it  was  sold,  with  many 
other  works  of  art,  to  travellers  in  Italy.  My  wife 
has  succeeded  in  buying  back  the  portraits  of  several 
of  my  ancestors,  but  this  particular  one  is  in  the  col- 
lection of  an  English  nobleman,  who  has  refused  to 
part  with  it,  though  kindly  allowing  a  copy  to  be 
made,  which  now  hangs  in  the  place  formerly  occu- 
pied by  the  original. 

It  represents  a  middle-sized  man,  slim  and  grace- 
ful, with  a  small  black  beard  and  moustache  ;  an 
oval  face,  olive  coloured,  and  from  his  fine  dark  eyes 
he  is  looking  straight  out  into  the  world  with  an  ex- 
pression of  complete  happiness.  It  was  painted  soon 
after  his  marriage.  He  is  dressed  in  the  costume  of 
the  period,  and  holds  a  roll  of  parchment  in  his  hand. 
At  the  top  right-hand  corner  are  the  date  and  the 
arms  of  the  family;  or  a  griffin  rampant — Jules 
crest  —  a  coronet.  The  motto  —  Felicitas. 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  SAINT. 


CHAPTER   I. 

"  ALLOW  me  to  present  to  you  my  friend,  Filippo 
Brandolini,  a  gentleman  of  Citta  di  Castello." 

Then,  turning  to  me,  Matteo  added,  "  This  is  my 
cousin,  Checco  d'Orsi." 

Checco  d'Orsi  smiled  and  bowed. 

"  Messer  Brandolini,"  he  said,  "  I  am  most  pleased 
to  make  your  acquaintance ;  you  are  more  than  wel- 
come to  my  house." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  I  replied  ;  "  Matteo  has  told 
me  much  of  your  hospitality." 

Checco  bowed  courteously,  and  asked  his  cousin, 
"  You  have  just  arrived,  Matteo?" 

"We  arrived  early  this  morning.  I  wished  to 
come  here  directly,  but  Filippo,  who  suffers  from  a 
very  insufferable  vanity,  insisted  on  going  to  an  inn 
and  spending  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  adornment  of 
his  person." 

"  How  did  you  employ  these  hours,  Matteo  ? " 
17 


1 8  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

asked  Checco,  looking  rather  questioningly  at  his 
cousin's  dress,  and  smiling. 

Matteo  looked  at  his  boots  and  his  coat. 

"  I  am  not  elegant !  But  I  felt  too  sentimental  to 
attend  to  my  personal  appearance,  and  I  had  to  re- 
store myself  with  wine.  You  know  we  are  very 
proud  of  our  native  Forli  wine,  Filippo." 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were  in  the  habit  of  being 
sentimental,  Matteo,"  remarked  Checco. 

"  It  was  quite  terrifying  this  morning,  when  we 
arrived/'  said  I ;  "  he  struck  attitudes,  and  called  it 
his  beloved  country,  and  wanted  to  linger  in  the 
cold  morning  and  tell  me  anecdotes  about  his  child- 
hood." 

"You  professional  sentimentalists  will  never  let 
any  one  sentimentalise  but  yourselves." 

"I  was  hungry,"  said  I,  laughing,  "and  it  didn't 
become  you.  Even  your  horse  had  his  doubts." 

"  Brute  !  "  said  Matteo.  "  Of  course,  I  was  too 
excited  to  attend  to  my  horse,  and  he  slipped  over 
those  confounded  stones,  and  nearly  shot  me  off,  — 
and  Filippo,  instead  of  sympathising,  burst  out 
laughing." 

"  Evidently  you  must  abandon  sentiment,"  said 
Checco. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  right.  Now  Filippo  can  be 
romantic  for  hours  at  a  stretch,  and,  what  is  worse, 
he  is  — but  nothing  happens  to  him.  But  on  coming 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  19 

back  to  my  native  town  after  four  years,  I  think  it 
was  pardonable." 

"  We  accept  your  apology,  Matteo,"  I  said. 

"  But  the  fact  is,  Checco,  that  I  am  glad  to  get 
back.  The  sight  of  the  old  streets,  the  Palazzo,  all 
fill  me  with  a  curious  sensation  of  joy,  —  and  I  feel 
—  I  don't  know  how  I  feel." 

"  Make  the  utmost  of  your  pleasure  while  you  can  ; 
you  may  not  always  find  a  welcome  in  Forli,"  said 
Checco,  gravely. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Matteo. 

"Oh,  we'll  talk  of  these  things  later.  You  had 
better  go  and  see  my  father  now,  and  then  you  can 
rest  yourselves.  You  must  be  tired  after  your  jour- 
ney. To-night  we  have  here  a  great  gathering, 
where  you  will  meet  your  old  friends.  The  count  has 
deigned  to  accept  my  invitation." 

"Deigned?"  said  Matteo,  lifting  his  eyebrows 
and  looking  at  his  cousin. 

Checco  smiled  bitterly. 

"  Times  have  changed  since  you  were  here, 
Matteo,"  he  said;  "the  Forlivesi  are  subjects  and 
courtiers  now." 

Putting  aside  Matteo's  further  questions,  he  bowed 
to  me  and  left  us. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  is,"  said  Matteo.  "  What  did 
you  think  of  him  ?" 

I  had  examined  Checco  d'Orsi  curiously,  —  a  tall, 


20  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

dark  man,  with  full  beard  and  moustache,  apparently 
about  forty.  There  was  a  distinct  likeness  between 
him  and  Matteo :  they  both  had  the  same  dark  hair 
and  eyes ;  but  Matteo' s  face  was  broader,  the  bones 
more  prominent,  and  the  skin  rougher  from  his 
soldier's  life.  Checco  was  thinner  and  graver,  he 
looked  a  great  deal  more  talented ;  Matteo,  as  I 
often  told  him,  was  not  clever. 

"  He  was  very  amiable,"  I  said,  in  reply  to  the 
question. 

"A  little  haughty,  but  he  means  to  be  courteous. 
He  is  rather  oppressed  with  his  dignity  of  head  of 
the  family." 

"  But  his  father  is  still  alive." 

"Yes,  but  he's  eighty-five,  and  he's  as  deaf  as  a 
post  and  as  blind  as  a  bat ;  so  he  remains  quietly  in 
his  room  while  Checco  pulls  the  strings,  so  that  we 
poor  devils  have  to  knuckle  under  and  do  as  he  bids 
us." 

"  I'm  sure  that  must  be  very  good  for  you,"  I  said. 
"  I'm  curious  to  know  why  Checco  talks  of  the  count 
as  he  did ;  when  I  was  here  last  they  were  bosom 
friends.  However,  let  us  go  and  drink,  having  done 
our  duty." 

We  went  to  the  inn  at  which  we  had  left  our 
horses,  and  ordered  wine. 

"  Give  us  your  best,  my  fat  friend,"  cried  Matteo 
to  mine  host.  "This  gentleman  is  a  stranger,  and 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  21 

does  not  know  what  wine  is ;  he  was  brought  up  on 
the  sickly  juice  of  Citta  di  Castello." 

"  You  live  at  Citta  di  Castello  ? "  asked  the  inn- 
keeper. 

"  I  wish  I  did,"  I  answered. 

"  He  was  ejected  from  his  country  for  his  country's 
good,"  remarked  Matteo. 

"That  is  not  true,"  I  replied,  laughing.  "I  left 
of  my  own  free  will." 

"  Galloping  as  hard  as  you  could,  with  four-and- 
twenty  horsemen  at  your  heels." 

"  Precisely !  and  so  little  did  they  want  me  to  go 
that,  when  I  thought  a  change  of  air  would  suit  me, 
they  sent  a  troop  of  horse  to  induce  me  to  return." 

"  Your  head  would  have  made  a  pretty  ornament 
stuck  on  a  pike  in  the  grand  piazza." 

"The  thought  amuses  you,"  I  answered,  "but  the 
comedy  of  it  did  not  impress  me  at  the  time." 

I  remembered  the  occasion  when  news  was 
brought  me  that  the  Vitelli,  the  tyrant  of  Castello, 
had  signed  a  warrant  for  my  arrest ;  whereupon, 
knowing  the  rapid  way  he  had  of  dealing  with  his 
enemies,  I  had  bidden  farewell  to  my  hearth  and 
home  with  somewhat  indecent  haste.  .  .  .  But  the 
old  man  had  lately  died,  and  his  son,  proceeding 
to  undo  all  his  father's  deeds,  had  called  back  the 
Fuoruseiti,  and  strung  up  from  the  Palace  windows 
such  of  his  father's  friends  as  had  not  had  time  to 


22  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

escape.  I  had  come  to  Forli  with  Matteo,  on  my 
way  home  to  take  possession  of  my  confiscated 
property,  hoping  to  find  that  the  intermediate  pro- 
prietor, who  was  dangling  at  a  rope's  end  some 
hundred  feet  from  the  ground,  had  made  sundry 
necessary  improvements. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  our  wine  ?"  said  Mat- 
teo. "  Compare  it  with  that  of  Citta  di  Castello." 

"  I  really  haven't  tasted  it  yet,"  I  said,  pretending 
to  smile  agreeably.  "  Strange  wines  I  always  drink 
at  a  gulp,  — like  medicine." 

" Brutta  bestial"  said  Matteo.  "You  are  no 
judge." 

"  It's  passable,"  I  said,  laughing,  having  sipped  it 
with  great  deliberation. 

Matteo  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"These  foreigners  !  "  he  said,  scornfully.  "Come 
here,  fat  man,"  he  called  to  the  innkeeper.  "Tell 
me  how  Count  Girolamo  and  the  gracious  Caterina 
are  progressing  ?  When  I  left  Forli  the  common 
people  struggled  to  lick  the  ground  they  trod  on." 

The  innkeeper  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Gentlemen  in  my  profession  have  to  be  careful 
in  what  they  say." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  man  ;  I  am  not  a  spy." 

"Well,  sir,  the  common  people  no  longer  struggle 
to  lick  the  ground  the  count  treads  on." 

"I  see." 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  2$ 

"You  understand,  sir.  Now  that  his  father  is 
dead  —  " 

"When  I  was  here  last,  Sixtus  was  called  his 
uncle." 

"  Ah,  they  say  he  was  too  fond  of  him  not  to  be 
his  father ;  but,  of  course,  I  know  nothing.  Far  be 
it  from  me  to  say  anything  in  disparagement  of  his 
Holiness,  past  or  present." 

"  However,  go  on." 

"Well,  sir,  when  the  Pope  died,  the  Count  Girolamo 
found  himself  short  of  money,  —  and  so  the  taxes  that 
ne  had  taken  off  he  put  on  again." 

"And  the  result  is  —  " 

"  Well,  the  people  are  beginning  to  murmur  about 
his  extravagance ;  and  they  say  that  Caterina  be- 
haves as  if  she  were  a  queen ;  whereas  we  all  know 
that  she  is  only  the  bastard  of  old  Sforza  of  Milan. 
But,  of  course,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  me ! " 

Matteo  and  I  were  beginning  to  feel  sleepy,  for  we 
had  been  riding  hard  all  night ;  and  we -went  up-stairs, 
giving  orders  to  be  called  in  time  for  the  night's 
festivity.  We  were  soon  fast  asleep. 

In  the  evening  Matteo  came  to  me,  and  began 
examining  my  clothes. 

"I  have  been  considering,  Filippo,"  he  said,  "that 
it  behoves  me,  on  my  first  appearance  before  the  eyes 
of  my  numerous  lady-loves,  to  cut  the  best  figure  I 
can." 


24  THE  MAKING   OP  A   SAINT. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  I  answered;  "but  I 
don't  see  what  you  are  doing  with  my  clothes." 

"Nobody  knows  you,  and  it  is  unimportant  how 
you  look ;  and,  as  you  have  some  very  nice  things 
here,  I  am  going  to  take  advantage  of  your  kindness, 
and  —  " 

"  You're  not  going  to  take  my  clothes ! "  I  said, 
springing  out  of  bed.  Matteo  gathered  up  in  his 
arms  various  garments,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room, 
slamming  the  door  and  locking  it  on  the  outside,  so 
that  I  was  left  shut  in,  helpless. 

I  shouted  abuse  after  him,  but  he  went  away 
laughing,  and  I  had  to  manage  as  best  I  could  with 
what  he  had  left  me.  In  half  an  hour  he  came  to 
the  door.  "  Do  you  want  to  come  out  ? "  he  said. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  I  answered,  kicking  the  panel. 

"  Will  you  promise  not  to  be  violent  ? " 

I  hesitated. 

"  I  sha'n't  let  you  out  unless  you  do." 

"Very  well !  "  I  answered,  laughing. 

Matteo  opened  the  door  and  stood  bolt  upright  on 
the  threshold,  decked  out  from  head  to  foot  in  my 
newest  clothes. 

"  You  villain  !  "  I  said,  amazed  at  his  effrontery. 

"You  don't  look  bad,  considering,"  he  answered, 
looking  at  me  calmly. 


CHAPTER    II. 

WHEN  we  arrived  at  the  Palazzo  Orsi,  many  of  the 
guests  had  already  come.  Matteo  was  immediately 
surrounded  by  his  friends,  and  a  score  of  ladies  beck- 
oned to  him  from  different  parts  of  the  room,  so  that 
he  was  torn  away  from  me,  leaving  me  rather  discon- 
solate alone  in  the  crowd.  Presently  I  was  attracted 
to  a  group  of  men  talking  to  a  woman  whom  I  could 
not  see  ;  Matteo  had  joined  them,  and  they  w^ere 
laughing  at  something  he  had  said.  I  had  turned 
away  to  look  at  other  people  when  I  heard  Matteo 
calling  me. 

"  Filippo,"  he  said,  coming  towards  me,  "  come  and 
be  introduced  to  Donna  Giulia ;  she  has  asked  me  to 
present  you." 

He  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  I  saw  that  the  lady 
and  her  admirers  were  looking  at  me. 

"She's  no  better  than  she  should  be,"  he  whis- 
pered, in  my  ear,  "but  she's  the  loveliest  woman 
in  Forli!" 

"  Allow  me  to  add  another  to  your  circle  of  adorers, 
Donna  Giulia,"  said  Matteo,  as  we  both  bowed, — 


26  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"  Messer  Filippo  Brandolini,  like  myself  a  soldier  of 
distinction/' 

I  saw  a  graceful  little  woman,  dressed  in  some 
Oriental  brocade ;  a  small  face,  with  quite  tiny  fea- 
tures, large  brown  eyes,  which  struck  me  at  the  first 
glance  as  very  soft  and  caressing,  a  mass  of  dark,  red- 
dish brown  hair,  and  a  fascinating  smile. 

"  We  were  asking  Matteo  where  his  wounds  were," 
she  said,  smiling  on  me  very  graciously.  "  He  tells 
us  they  are  all  in  the  region  of  his  heart." 

"In  that  case,"  I  answered,  "he  has  come  to  a 
more  deadly  battlefield  than  any  we  saw  during  the 
war." 

"  What  war  ? "  asked  a  gentleman  who  was  stand- 
ing by.  "  Nowadays  we  are  in  the  happy  state  of 
having  ten  different  wars  in  as  many  parts  of  the 
country." 

"I  was  serving  under  the  Duke  of  Calabria,"  I 
replied. 

"  In  that  case  your  battles  were  bloodless." 

"  We  came,  we  saw,  and  the  enemy  decamped," 
said  Matteo. 

"  And  now,  taking  advantage  of  the  peace,  you  have 
come  to  trouble  the  hearts  of  Forli,"  said  Donna 
Giulia. 

"  Who  knows  how  useful  your  swords  may  not  be 
here !  "  remarked  a  young  man. 

"Be  quiet,  Nicolo ! "  said  another,  and  there  was 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  2*J 

an  awkward  silence,  during  which  Matteo  and  I  looked 
at  one  another  in  surprise,  and  then  every  one  burst 
out  talking,  so  that  you  could  not  hear  what  was 
said. 

Matteo  and  I  bowed  ourselves  away  from  Donna 
Giulia,  and  he  took  me  to  Checco,  standing  in  a  group 
of  men. 

"  You  have  recovered  from  your  fatigue  ?  "  he  asked, 
kindly. 

"  You  have  been  travelling,  Matteo  ? "  said  one  of 
the  company. 

"Yes,  we  rode  sixty  miles  yesterday,"  he  replied. 

"  Sixty  miles  on  one  horse ;  you  must  have  good 
steeds  and  good  imaginations,"  said  a  big,  heavy-look- 
ing man,  —  an  ugly,  sallow-faced  person,  whom  I  hated 
at  first  sight. 

"  It  was  only  once  in  a  way,  and  we  wanted  to  get 
home." 

"  You  could  not  have  come  faster  if  you  had  been 
running  away  from  a  battle-field,"  said  the  man. 

I  thought  him  needlessly  disagreeable,  but  I  did 
not  speak.  Matteo  had  not  cultivated  the  golden 
quality. 

"You  talk  as  one  who  has  had  experience,"  he 
remarked,  smiling  in  his  most  amiable  manner. 

I  saw  Checco  frown  at  Matteo,  while  the  bystand- 
ers looked  on  interestedly. 

"  I  only  said  that,"  added  the  man,  shrugging  his 


28  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

shoulders,  "  because  the  Duke  of  Calabria  is  rather 
celebrated  for  his  retreative  tactics." 

I  entertained  a  very  great  respect  for  the  duke,  who 
had  always  been  a  kind  and  generous  master  to  me. 

"Perhaps  you  do  not  know  very  much  about  tac- 
tics/ '  I  remarked,  as  offensively  as  I  could. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  me,  as  if  to  say,  "  Who 
the  devil  are  you !  "  He  looked  me  up  and  down 
contemptuously,  and  I  began  to  feel  that  I  was  almost 
losing  my  temper. 

"My  good  young  man,"  he  said,  "I  imagine  that 
I  was  engaged  in  war  when  your  battles  were  with 
your  nursemaid." 

"  You  have  the  advantage  of  me  in  courtesy  as  well 
as  in  years,  sir,"  I  replied.  "But  I  might  suggest 
that  a  man  may  fight  all  his  life,  and  have  no  more 
idea  of  war  at  the  end  than  at  the  beginning." 

"  It  depends  on  the  intelligence,"  remarked  Matteo. 

"  Exactly  what  I  was  thinking,"  said  I. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?"  said  the  man, 
angrily. 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  means  anything  at  all,  Ercole," 
put  in  Checco,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"  He  can  answer  for  himself,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
man.  A  flush  came  over  Checco's  face,  but  he  did 
not  answer. 

"My  good  sir,"  I  said,  "you  have  to  consider 
whether  I  choose  to  answer." 


THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  29 

"Jackanapes !  " 

I  put  my  hand  to  my  sword,  but  Checco  caught 
hold  of  my  arm.  I  recovered  myself  at  once. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Messer  Checco,"  I  said ; 
then,  turning  to  the  man,  "  You  are  safe  in  insult- 
ing me  here.  You  show  your  breeding !  Really, 
Matteo,  you  did  not  tell  me  that  you  had  such  a 
charming  fellow  countryman." 

"You  are  too  hard  on  us,  Filippo,"  answered  my 
friend,  "for  such  a  monstrosity  as  that,  Forli  is  not 
responsible." 

"  I  am  no  Forlivese,  thank  God  !  Neither  the 
count  nor  I."  He  looked  around  scornfully.  "We 
offer  up  thanks  to  the  Almighty  every  time  the  fact 
occurs  to  us.  I  am  a  citizen  of  Castello." 

Matteo  was  going  to  burst  out,  but  I  anticipated 
him.  "  I,  too,  am  a  citizen  of  Castello ;  and  allow 
me  to  inform  you  that  I  consider  you  a  very  insolent 
fellow,  and  I  apologise  to  these  gentlemen  that  a 
countryman  of  mine  should  forget  the  courtesy  due 
to  the  city  which  is  sheltering  him." 

"You  are  a  Castelese !  And,  pray,'  who  are 
you?" 

"My  name  is  Filippo  Brandolini." 

"  I  know  your  house.     Mine  is  Ercole  Piacentini." 

"  I  cannot  return  the  compliment ;  I  have  never 
heard  of  yours." 

The  surrounders  laughed. 


30  THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"  My  family  is  as  good  as  yours,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Really,  I  have  no  acquaintance  with  the  mid- 
dle classes  of  Castello ;  but  I  have  no  doubt  it  is 
respectable. " 

I  noticed  that  the  listeners  seemed  very  contented, 
and  I  judged  that  Messer  Ercole  Piacentini  was  not 
greatly  loved  in  Forli ;  but  Checco  was  looking  on 
anxiously. 

"  You  insolent  young  boy !  "  said  the  man,  furi- 
ously. "  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  that !  I  will 
kick  you !  " 

I  put  my  hand  to  my  sword  to  draw  it,  for  I  was 
furious,  too ;  I  pulled  at  the  hilt,  but  I  felt  a  hand 
catch  hold  of  mine  and  prevent  me.  I  struggled ; 
then  I  heard  Checco  in  my  ear. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  said.     "  Be  quiet !  " 

"  Let  me  be  !  "  I  cried. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool !  You'll  ruin  us."  He  held  my 
sword,  so  that  I  could  not  draw  it. 

Ercole  saw  what  was  going  on  ;  his  lips  broke  into 
a  sarcastic  smile. 

"  You  are  being  taught  the  useful  lesson  of  discre- 
tion, young  man.  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  has 
learnt  it."  He  looked  around  at  the  bystanders.  .  .  . 

At  that  moment  a  servant  came  to  Checco  and 
announced,  — 

"  The  count !  " 

The  group  broke  up,  and  Checco  advanced  to  the 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  3! 

further  end  of  the  hall,  with  Ercole  Piacentini  and 
several  other  gentlemen.  Matteo  and  I  lingered 
where  we  were.  There  was  a  rustle,  and  the  count 
and  countess  appeared,  attended  by  their  suite. 

First  of  all  my  eyes  were  attracted  to  Caterina ; 
she  was  wonderfully  beautiful.  A  tall,  well-made 
woman,  holding  herself  proudly,  her  head  well  poised 
on  the  neck,  like  a  statue. 

"  One  would  think  she  was  a  king's  daughter !  " 
said  Matteo,  looking  at  her  with  astonishment. 

"It  is  almost  Francesco's  face,"  I  said. 

We  both  had  an  immense  admiration  for  Francesco 
Sforza,  the  King  of  Condottieri,  who  had  raised  him- 
self from  a  soldier  of  fortune  to  the  proudest  duchy 
of  the  world.  And  Caterina,  his  natural  daughter, 
had  the  same  clear,  strong  features,  the  strong  pierc- 
ing eyes,  but  instead  of  the  Sforza's  pockmarked 
skin,  she  had  a  complexion  of  rare  delicacy  and 
softness  ;  and  afterwards  she  proved  that  she  had 
inherited  her  father's  courage  as  well  as  his  appear- 
ance. .  .  .  She  was  dressed  in  a  gorgeous  robe  of 
silver  cloth,  glittering  and  shimmering  as  she  walked, 
and  her  hair  was  done  in  her  favourite  manner,  inter- 
twined with  gold  and  silver  threads  ;  but  the  wonder- 
ful chestnut  outshone  the  brilliant  metals,  seeming  to 
lend  their  beauty  rather  than  to  borrow  it.  I  heard 
her  speak,  and  her  voice  was  low  and  full,  like  a 
man's. 


32  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

Matteo  and  I  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  minute ; 
then  we  both  broke  out,  "Per Bacco,  she  is  beautiful! " 

I  began  thinking  of  the  fairy  stories  I  had  heard 
of  Caterina  at  Rome,  where  she  had  enchanted  every 
one  by  her  loveliness,  and  Sixtus  had  squandered 
the  riches  of  the  Church  to  satisfy  her  whims  and 
fancies  :  banquets,  balls,  pageants,  and  gorgeous  cere- 
monies ;  the  ancient  city  had  run  red  with  wine  and 
mad  with  delight  of  her  beauty. 

Suddenly  Matteo  said  to  me,  "Look  at  Girolamo !" 

I  lifted  my  eyes,  and  saw  him  standing  quite  close 
to  me,  —  a  tall  man,  muscular  and  strong,  with  big, 
heavy  face,  and  prominent  jaw-bones,  the  nose  long 
and  hooked,  small,  keen  eyes,  very  mobile.  His  skin 
was  unpleasant,  red  and  coarse ;  like  his  wife,  he  was 
dressed  with  great  magnificence. 

"One  sees  the  sailor  grandfather  in  him/*  I  said, 
remembering  that  Sixtus's  father,  the  founder  of  the 
family,  was  a  common  sailor  at  Rovese. 

He  was  talking  to  Checco,  who  was  apparently 
speaking  to  him  of  us,  for  he  turned  and  stepped 
forward  to  Matteo. 

"  The  prodigal  has  returned/1  he  said.  "  We  will 
not  fail  to  kill  the  fatted  calf.  But  this  time  you 
must  stay  with  us,  Matteo ;  we  can  give  you  service 
as  well  as  the  Duke  of  Calabria/* 

Matteo  smiled  grimly;  and  the  count  turned  to  me. 

"  Checco  has  told  me  of  you,  also,  sir ;  but  I  fear 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  33 

there  is  no  chance  of  keeping  you,  you  are  but  a 
bird  of  passage,  —  still,  I  hope  you  will  let  us  make 
you  welcome  at  the  Palace." 

All  the  time  he  was  speaking,  his  eyes  kept  mov- 
ing rapidly  up  and  down,  all  around  me,  and  I  felt  he 
was  taking  in  my  whole  person.  .  .  .  After  these 
few  words  he  smiled,  a  harsh,  mechanical  smile, 
meant  to  be  gracious,  and  with  a  courteous  bow 
moved  on.  I  turned  to  Matteo,  and  saw  him  look- 
ing after  the  count  very  sourly. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"  He  is  devilish  condescending,"  he  answered. 
"  When  last  I  was  here,  it  was  hail-fellow-well-met ; 
but,  good  God !  he's  put  on  airs  since  then ! " 

"  Your  cousin  said  something  to  the  same  effect/' 
I  remarked. 

"  Yes,  I  understand  what  he  meant,  now." 

We  strolled  around  the  room,  looking  at  the  people 
and  talking. 

"Look,"  I  said,  "there's  a  handsome  woman!" 
pointing  to  a  voluptuous  beauty,  a  massive  creature, 
full-breasted  and  high-coloured. 

"  Your  eye  is  drawn  to  a  handsome  woman  like 
steel  to  a  magnet,  Filippo,"  answered  Matteo,  laughing. 

"Introduce  me,"  I  said,  "if  she  is  not  ferocious." 

"  By  no  means ;  and  she  has  probably  already 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  you.  But  she  is  wife  to  Ercole 
Piacentini." 


34  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  I  don't  care.  I  mean  to  kill  the  man  afterwards ; 
but  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  make  myselt 
pleasant  to  his  spouse." 

"  You  will  do  her  a  service  in  both  ways,"  he  re- 
plied ;  and,  going  up  to  her,  "  Claudia,"  he  said, 
"your  fatal  eyes  have  transfixed  another  heart." 

Her  sensual  lips  broke  into  a  smile. 

"  Have  they  that  power  ? "  She  fixed  them  on 
me,  and  made  room  on  the  couch  on  which  she 
was  sitting.  Neither  Matteo  nor  I  were  slow  to  take 
the  hint,  for  I  took  my  place  and  he  his  leave.  "  I 
wonder  you  have  not  already  fallen  victim  to  Ma- 
donna Giulia,"  said  Claudia,  looking  languorously  at 
me  and  glancing  over  to  the  other  lady. 

"  One  does  not  worship  the  moon  when  the  sun  is 
shining,"  I  replied,  politely. 

"  Giulia  is  more  like  the  sun,  for  she  gathers  all 
men  in  her  embrace.  I  am  more  modest." 

I  understood  that  the  rival  beauties  were  not  good 
friends. 

"  You  boast  that  you  are  cruel,"  I  replied.  She 
did  not  answer,  but  sighed  deeply,  smiling,  and  fixed 
on  me  her  great,  liquid  eyes. 

"  Oh,  there  is  my  husband."  I  looked  up  and  saw 
the  great  Ercole  glaring  viciously  at  me.  I  laughed 
within  myself. 

"  He  must  be  very  jealous  of  so  beautiful  a  wife  ?  " 
I  asked. 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  35 

"Oh,  it's  terrible  ;  he  torments  me  to  death." 

Under  these  circumstances  I  thought  I  would 
pursue  my  advantage  ;  I  pressed  closer  to  her. 

"  I  can  understand  it  :  the  first  moment  I  saw 
you,  I  felt  my  head  whirl." 

She  gave  me  a  very  long  glance  from  beneath  her 
eyelashes.  I  seized  her  hand. 

"Those  eyes!"  I  said,  looking  into  them  fer- 
vently. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  sighed,  again. 

"  Madam,"  said  a  page  boy,  coming  up  to  her, 
"  Messer  Piacentini  begs  that  you  will  come  to 
him." 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  annoyance. 

"  My  husband  !  "  Then,  rising  from  her  seat,  she 
turned  to  me,  holding  out  her  hand  ;  I  immediately 
offered  my  arm,  and  we  solemnly  crossed  the  room 
to  Ercole  Piacentini.  Here  she  bowed  very  gra- 
ciously to  me,  and  I  smiled  on  the  happy  husband 
with  the  utmost  sweetness,  while  he  looked  very 
grim  and  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  me ;  then 
I  marched  off,  feeling  particularly  pleased  with 
myself. 

The  count  and  countess  were  on  the  point  of 
taking  their  departure  ;  they  were  followed  by  Ercole 
and  his  wife ;  the  remaining  guests  soon  went,  and 
in  a  little  while  there  were  left  only  Matteo  and 
myself,  two  other  men,  and  Checco. 


CHAPTER   III. 

CHECCO  led  us  to  a  smaller  room,  at  some  distance 
from  the  great  hall  of  the  reception  ;  then,  turning 
to  a  man  I  did  not  know,  he  said,  "  Did  you  hear  the 
Piacentini  ? " 

"  Yes !  "  he  answered  ;  and  for  a  moment  they 
looked  at  one  another  silently. 

"  He  would  not  have  been  so  bold  without  good 
cause/'  added  the  man. 

I  was  told  that  his  name  was  Lodovico  Pansecchi, 
and  that  he  was  a  soldier  in  the  count's  pay. 

Checco  turned  round,  and  looked  at  me  sharply. 
Matteo  understood  what  he  meant,  and  said,  "  Have 
no  fear  of  Filippo  ;  he  is  as  safe  as  myself." 

Checco  nodded,  and  made  a  sign  to  a  youth,  who 
immediately  rose  and  carefully  closed  the  door.  We 
sat  still  for  awhile ;  then  Checco  stood  up  and  said, 
impatiently,  "I  cannot  understand  it."  He  walked 
up  and  down  the  room,  stopping  at  last  in  front 
of  me. 

"You  had  never  seen  that  man  before  ?  " 

"  Never  !  "  I  answered. 

36 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  3/ 

"  The  quarrel  was  brought  on  solely  by  Ercole 
himself,"  said  the  youth,  whom  I  found  to  be  Ales- 
sandro  Moratini,  a  brother  of  Giulia  dall*  Aste. 

"  I  know/'  said  Checco,  "  but  he  would  never  have 
dared  to  behave  thus  unless  he  knew  of  some  design 
of  Girolamo."  He  paused  a  moment  to  think,  then 
turning  to  me  again,  "  You  must  not  challenge  him." 

"On  the  contrary,"  I  replied,  "I  must  challenge 
him  ;  he  has  insulted  me." 

"I  don't  care  about  that.  I  will  not  have  you 
challenge  him." 

"This  concerns  myself  alone." 

"  Nonsense  !  You  are  a  guest  of  my  house,  and 
for  all  I  know  it  is  just  such  an  opportunity  as  this 
that  Girolamo  is  seeking." 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  said. 

"  Listen,"  said  Checco,  sitting  down  again.  "  When 
Sixtus  obtained  possession  of  Forli  for  his  nephew, 
Girolamo  Riario,  I,  like  the  fool  I  was,  did  all  I  could 
to  bring  the  town  to  his  allegiance.  My  father  was 
against  the  plan,  but  I  bore  down  his  opposition  and 
threw  the  whole  power  of  my  house  on  his  side. 
Without  me  he  would  never  have  been  Lord  of 
Forli." 

"I  remember,"  said  Matteo.  "You  used  Sixtus 
to  keep  the  Ordelaffi  out ;  and  you  thought  Girolamo 
would  be  a  catspaw  in  our  hands." 

"  I  did  not  give  the  city  for  love  of  a  person  I  had 


38  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

never  seen  in  my  life.  .  .  .  Well,  this  was  eight  years 
ago.  Girolamo  took  off  the  heaviest  taxes,  granted 
favours  to  the  town,  and  entered  in  solemn  state  with 
Caterina." 

"  Amid  shouts  and  cheers/'  remarked  Alessandro. 

"  For  awhile  he  was  more  popular  than  ever  the 
Ordelaffi  had  been,  and  when  he  went  out  the  people 
ran  to  kiss  the  hem  of  his  garment.  He  spent  the 
great  part  of  his  time  in  Rome,  but  he  employed  the 
riches  of  the  Pope  in  beautifying  Forli,  and  when  he 
came  it  was  one  round  of  feasts  and  balls  and  gaiety. 

"  Then  Pope  Sixtus  died,  and  Girolamo  settled 
here  for  good  in  the  palace  which  he  had  commenced 
building  on  his  accession.  The  feasts  and  balls  and 
gaiety  continued.  Whenever  a  distinguished  stranger 
passed  through  the  town,  he  was  welcomed  by  the 
count  and  his  wife  with  the  most  lavish  hospitality ; 
so  that  Forli  became  renowned  for  its  luxury  and 
riches. 

"  The  poets  ransacked  Parnassus  and  the  ancients 
for  praises  of  their  ruler,  and  the  people  echoed  the 
panegyrics  of  the  poet.  .  .  . 

"  Then  came  the  crash.  I  had  often  warned  Giro- 
lamo, for  we  were  intimate  friends  —  then.  I  told 
him  that  he  could  not  continue  the  splendour  which 
he  had  used  when  the  wealth  of  Christendom  was 
at  his  command,  when  he  could  spend  the  tribute 
of  a  nation  on  a  necklace  for  Caterina.  He  would 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  39 

not  listen.  It  was  always,  <  I  cannot  be  mean  and 
thrifty/  and  he  called  it  policy.  '  To  be  popular/  he 
said,  *  I  must  be  magnificent/  The  time  came  when 
the  Treasury  was  empty,  and  he  had  to  borrow.  He 
borrowed  in  Rome  and  Florence  and  Milan,  —  and  all 
the  time  he  would  not  retrench,  but  rather,  as  his 
means  became  less,  the  extravagance  became  greater ; 
but  when  he  could  borrow  no  more  outside,  he  came 
to  the  citizens  of  Forli,  first,  of  course,  to  me,  and  I 
repeatedly  lent  him  large  sums.  But  these  were  not 
enough,  and  he  sent  for  the  richest  men  in  Forli  and 
asked  them  to  lend  him  money.  Naturally  they  could 
not  refuse.  But  he  squandered  their  money  as  he  had 
squandered  his  own ;  and  one  fine  day  he  assembled 
the  Council." 

"  Ah,  yes/'  said  Alessandro,  "  I  was  there  then.  I 
heard  him  speak.'* 

Checco  stopped,  as  if  for  Alessandro. 

"  He  came  to  the  Council-chamber,  clad  as  usual 
in  the  richest  robes,  and  began  talking  privately  to 
the  senators,  very  courteously,  —  laughing  with  them, 
shaking  their  hands.  Then,  going  to  his  place,  he 
began  to  speak.  He  talked  of  his  liberality  towards 
them,  and  the  benefits  he  had  conferred  on  the  town  ; 
showed  them  his  present  necessities,  and  finally  asked 
them  to  reimpose  the  taxes  which  he  had  taken  off 
at  the  beginning  of  his  reign.  They  were  all  preju- 
diced against  him,  for  many  of  them  had  already  lent 


40  THE   MAKING  OF  A   SAINT. 

him  money  privately,  but  there  was  such  a  charm  in 
his  discourse,  he  was  so  persuasive,  that  one  really 
could  not  help  seeing  the  reasonableness  of  his  de- 
mand. I  know  I  myself  would  have  granted  him 
whatever  he  asked/' 

"  He  can  make  one  do  anything  he  likes,  when  he 
once  begins  talking/'  said  Lodovico. 

"  The  Council  unanimously  voted  the  reimposition 
of  the  taxes,  and  Girolamo  offered  them  his  thanks  in 
his  most  gracious  manner." 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  by  Matteo. 

"And  then?"  he  asked. 

"Then,"  answered  Checco,  "he  went  to  Imola, 
and  began  spending  there  the  money  that  he  was 
gathering  here." 

"  And  what  did  they  think  of  it  in  Forli  ? " 

"  Ah,  when  the  time  came  to  pay  the  taxes  they 
ceased  their  praises  of  Girolamo.  First  they  mur- 
mured beneath  their  breath,  then  out  loud  ;  and 
soon  they  cursed  him  and  his  wife.  The  count 
heard  of  it  and  came  back  from  Imola,  thinking,  by 
his  presence,  to  preserve  the  town  in  its  allegiance. 
But  the  fool  did  not  know  that  the  sight  of  him 
would  redouble  the  anger  of  the  populace.  They 
saw  his  gorgeous  costumes,  the  gold  and  silver 
dresses  of  his  wife,  the  jewels,  the  feasting  and 
riotry,  and  they  knew  that  it  came  out  of  their 
pockets;  the  food  of  their  children,  all  that  they 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  4! 

had  toiled  and  worked  for,  was  spent  on  the  insane 
luxury  of  this  papal  favourite  and  his  bastard 
wife." 

"  And  how  has  he  treated  us  ? "  cried  Lodovico, 
beating  his  fist  violently  down  on  the  table.  "  I  was 
in  the  pay  of  the  Duke  of  Calabria,  and  he  made  me 
tempting  offers,  so  that  I  left  the  armies  of  Naples 
to  enter  the  papal  service  under  him.  And  now,  for 
four  years,  I  have  not  received  a  penny  of  my  salary, 
and  when  I  ask  him,  he  puts  me  aside  with  gentle 
words,  and  now  he  does  not  even  trouble  to  give  me 
them.  A  few  days  back  I  stopped  him  in  the  piazza, 
and,  falling  on  my  knees,  begged  for  what  he  owed 
me.  He  threw  me  violently  away,  and  said  he  could 
not  pay  me,  — and  the  jewel  on  his  breast  was  worth 
ten  times  the  money  he  owed  me.  And  now  he 
looks  at  me  with  frowns,  me  who  have  served  him 
faithfully  as  a  dog.  I  will  not  endure  it ;  by  God  !  I 
will  not."  He  clenched  his  fists  as  he  spoke,  trem- 
bling with  rage. 

"And  you  know  how  he  has  served  me,"  said 
Checco.  "  I  have  lent  him  so  much  that  he  has  not 
the  face  to  ask  for  more ;  and  how  do  you  think  he 
has  rewarded  me  ?  Because  I  have  not  paid  certain 
dues  I  owe  the  Treasury,  he  sent  a  sheriff  to  demand 
them ;  and  when  I  said  I  would  not  pay  them  at  that 
moment,  he  sent  for  me,  and  himself  asked  for  the 
money," 


42  THE   MAKING    t)F  A    SAINT, 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"  I  reminded  him  of  the  money  he  owed  me,  and 
he  informed  me  that  a  private  debt  had  nothing  to 
do  with  a  debt  to  the  State,  and  said  that  I  must 
pay,  or  the  law  should  take  its  course. " 

"  He  must  be  mad,"  said  Matteo. 

"  He  is  mad,  mad  with  pride,  mad  in  his  extrav- 
agance." 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Lodovico,  "it  cannot  be  en- 
dured." 

"And  they  tell  me  that  he  has  said  my  tongue 
must  be  silenced,"  added  Checco.  "  The  other  day 
he  was  talking  to  Guiseppe  Albicina,  and  he  said, 
<  Let  Checco  beware ;  he  may  go  too  far,  and  find 
the  hand  of  the  master  not  so  gentle  as  the  hand 
of  the  friend  ! '  " 

"  I,  too,  have  heard  him  say  things  which  sounded 
like  threats,"  said  Alessandro. 

"We  have  all  heard  it,"  added  Lodovico.  "When 
his  temper  overcomes  him,  he  cares  not  what  he 
says,  and  one  discovers  then  what  he  and  his  silent 
wife  have  been  plotting  between  them." 

"  Now,  sir,"  interrupted  Checco,  speaking  to  me, 
"you  see  how  things  stand  :  we  are  on  thin  ground, 
and  the  fire  is  raging  beneath  us.  You  must  promise 
not  to  seek  further  quarrel  with  this  countryman  of 
yours,  this  Ercole  Piacentini.  He  is  one  of  Giro- 
lamo's  chiefest  favourites,  and  he  would  not  bear  to 


THE   MAKING   OF  A    SAINT.  43 

see  him  touched ;  if  you  happened  to  kill  him,  the 
count  would  take  the  opportunity  to  have  us  all 
arrested,  and  we  should  suffer  the  fate  of  the  Pazzi 
at  Florence.  Will  you  promise  ?  " 

"I  promise,"  I  answered,  smiling,  "to  defer  my 
satisfaction  to  a  fitter  opportunity." 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  Checco,  "we  can  sepa- 
rate." 

We  bade  one  another  good  night;  Alessandro, 
as  he  was  going,  said  to  Matteo,  "  You  must  bring 
your  friend  to  my  sister  to-morrow ;  she  will  be 
glad  to  see  you  both." 

We  said  we  should  be  enchanted,  and  Alessandro 
and  Lodovico  Pansecchi  left  us. 

Matteo  looked  at  Checco,  meditatively. 

"Cousin,"  he  said,  "all  this  looks  very  like  con- 
spiracy." 

Checco  started. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  if  the  people  are  dissatisfied 
with  Girolamo." 

"But  you?"  pursued  Matteo.  "I  imagine  you 
do  not  greatly  care  whether  the  people  are  taxed 
or  no.  You  knew  the  taxes  would  have  to  come 
on  again  sooner  or  later." 

"  Has  he  not  insulted  me  by  sending  a  sheriff  to 
demand  his  dues  ?  " 

"Is  there  nothing  further  than  that?"  asked 
Matteo,  looking  at  his  cousin  steadily. 


44  THE  MAKING   &F  A   SAINT. 

Checco  lifted  his  eyes,  and  gazed  back  into 
Matteo's. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  at  last;  " eight  years  ago  I  was 
Girolamo's  equal,  now  I  am  his  servant.  I  was  his 
friend,  he  loved  me  like  a  brother,  —  and  then  his 
wife  came,  the  daughter  of  Francesco  Sforza,  the 
bastard,  —  and  gradually  he  has  lifted  himself  up 
from  me.  He  has  been  cold  and  reserved;  he  begins 
to  show  himself  master;  and  now  I  am  nothing 
more  than  a  citizen  among  citizens,  — the  first,  but 
not  the  equal  of  the  master.'* 

Checco  kept  silence  for  a  moment,  and  m  his 
quietness  I  could  see  the  violence  of  his  emo- 
tion. 

"  This  concerns  you  as  well  as  me,  Matteo.  Yov 
are  an  Orsi,  and  the  Orsi  are  not  made  to  be  servants. 
I  will  be  no  man's  servant.  When  I  think  of  thi* 
man  —  this  bastard  of  a  pope  —  treating  me  as  be 
neath  him,  by  God !  I  cannot  breathe.  I  could  roll 
on  the  floor,  and  tear  my  hair  with  rage.  Do  you 
know  that  the  Orsi  have  been  great  and  rich  for 
three  hundred  years  ?  The  Medici  pale  before  them, 
for  they  are  burghers,  and  we  have  been  always 
noble.  We  expelled  the  Ordelaffi  because  they 
wished  to  give  us  a  bastard  boy  to  rule  over  us, 
and  shall  we  accept  this  Riario  ?  I  swear  I  will 
not  endure  it." 

"Well  said!"  said  Matteo. 


Tff£  MAKING  OF  A  SAINT.  4J 

"  Girolamo  shall  go  as  the  Ordelaffi  went.  By 
God !  I  swear  it." 

I  looked  at  Matteo,  and  I  saw  that  suddenly  a  pas- 
sion had  caught  hold  of  him ;  his  face  was  red,  his 
eyes  staring  wide,  and  his  voice  was  hoarse  and 
thick. 

"  But  do  not  mistake  again,  Checco,"  he  said  ;  "  we 
want  no  foreign  rulers.  The  Orsi  must  be  the  only 
Lords  of  Forli." 

Checco  and  Matteo  stood  looking  at  one  another ; 
then  the  former,  shaking  himself  as  if  to  regain  his 
calmness,  turned  his  back  on  us  and  left  the  room. 
Matteo  strode  up  and  down  for  awhile  in  thought, 
and  then,  turning  to  me,  said,  "Come." 

We  went  out,  and  returned  to  our  hostelry. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

NEXT  day  we  went  to  Donna  Giulia's. 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  I  asked  Matteo,  as  we  walked 
along. 

"  A  widow  !  "  he  answered,  shortly. 

"  Further  ? "  I  asked. 

"The  scandal  of  Forli!" 

"  Most  interesting ;  but  how  has  she  gained  her 
reputation  ? " 

"  How  do  I  know  ? "  he  answered,  laughing ;  "  how 
do  women  usually  gain  their  reputations  ?  She  drove 
Giovanni  dall*  Aste  into  his  grave  ;  her  rivals  say  she 
poisoned  him,  —  but  that  is  a  cheerful  libel,  probably 
due  to  Claudia  Piacentini." 

"  How  long  has  she  been  a  widow  ? " 

"  Five  or  six  years." 

"And  how  has  she  lived  since  then  ? " 

Matteo  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"As  widows  usually  live!"  he  answered.  "For 
my  part,  I  really  cannot  see  what  inducement  a 
woman  in  that  position  has  to  be  virtuous.  After 

46 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  4/ 

all,  one  is  only  young  once,  and  had  better  make  the 
best  use  of  one's  youth  while  it  lasts." 

"  But  has  she  no  relations  ? " 

"  Certainly ;  she  has  a  father  and  two  brothers. 
But  they  hear  nothing  or  care  nothing.  Besides,  it 
may  be  only  scandal  after  all." 

"You  talked  as  if  it  were  a  fact,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  only  say  that  if  it  is  not  a  fact  she  is 
a  very  foolish  woman.  Now  that  she  has  a  bad  rep- 
utation, it  would  be  idiotic  not  to  live  up  to  it." 

"You  speak  with  some  feeling,"  I  remarked, 
laughing. 

"Ah,"  answered  Matteo,  with  another  shrug  of 
the  shoulders,  "  I  laid  siege  to  the  fort  of  her  virtue, 
—  and  she  sallied  and  retired,  and  mined  and  coun- 
termined, advanced  and  drew  back,  so  that  I  grew 
weary  and  abandoned  the  attack.  Life  is  not  long 
enough  to  spend  six  months  in  politeness  and  flat- 
tery, and  then  not  be  sure  of  the  reward  at  the 
end." 

"  You  have  a  practical  way  of  looking  at  things." 

"  With  me,  you  know,  one  woman  is  very  like 
another.  It  comes  to  the  same  in  the  end  ;  and  after 
one  has  kicked  about  the  world  for  a  few  years,  one 
arrives  at  the  conclusion  that  it  does  not  much  matter 
if  they  be  dark  or  fair,  fat  or  thin.  ..." 

"  Did  you  tell  all  this  to  Donna  Giulia  ? "  I  asked. 

"  More  or  less." 


48  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  What  did  she  think  of  it  ? " 

"  She  was  cross  for  awhile.  She  wished  she  had 
yielded  sooner,  when  it  was  too  late ;  it  served  her 
right !  " 

We  had  arrived  at  the  house,  and  were  ushered  in. 
Donna  Giulia  greeted  us  very  politely,  gave  me  a 
glance,  and  began  talking  again  to  her  friends.  One 
could  see  that  the  men  around  her  were  more  or  less 
in  love,  for  they  followed  every  motion  with  their 
eyes,  disputing  her  smiles,  which  she  scattered  in 
profusion,  now  upon  one,  now  upon  another.  ...  I 
saw  she  delighted  in  flattery,  for  the  maker  of  any 
neat  compliment  was  always  rewarded  with  a  softer 
look  and  a  more  charming  smile. 

Matteo  surpassed  the  others  in  the  outrageousness 
of  his  flattery ;  I  thought  she  must  see  that  he  was 
laughing  at  her,  but  she  accepted  everything  he  said 
quite  seriously,  and  was  evidently  much  pleased. 

"Are  you  not  glad  to  be  back  in  Forli  ? "  she  said 
to  him. 

"We  all  delight  to  tread  the  ground  you  walk 
on." 

"You  have  grown  very  polite  during  your  ab- 
sence." 

"What  other  result  could  have  been,  when  I 
spent  my  time  thinking  of  the  lovely  Giulia  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  you  had  other  thoughts  in  Naples  : 
they  say  that  there  the  women  are  all  beautiful." 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  49 

"  Naples  !  My  dear  lady,  I  swear  that  during  all 
the  time  I  have  been  away  I  have  never  seen  a  face 
to  compare  with  yours. " 

Her  eyes  quite  shone  with  pleasure.  I  turned 
away,  finding  the  conversation  silly.  I  thought  I 
would  do  without  the  pleasant  looks  of  Madonna 
Giulia,  and  I  decided  not  to  come  to  her  again. 
Meanwhile,  I  began  talking  to  one  of  the  other 
ladies  in  the  room,  and  passed  the  time  agreeably 
enough.  ...  In  a  little  while  Giulia  passed  me, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  one  of  her  admirers.  I  saw 
her  glance  at  me,  but  I  took  no  notice.  Immedi- 
ately afterwards  she  came  again,  hesitating  a  mo- 
ment, as  if  she  wished  to  say  something,  but  passed 
on  without  speaking.  I  thought  she  was  piqued  at 
my  inattention  to  her,  and,  with  a  smile,  redoubled 
my  attentions  to  the  lady  with  whom  I  was  talking. 

"  Messer  Filippo  !  "  Donna  Giulia  called  me,  "  if 
you  are  not  too  engaged,  will  you  speak  to  me  for 
one  moment  ? " 

I  approached  her,  smiling. 

"  I  am  anxious  to  hear  of  your  quarrel  with  Ercole 
Piacentini.  I  have  heard  quite  ten  different  stories." 

"  I  am  surprised  that  the  insolence  of  an  ill-bred 
fellow  should  rouse  such  interest." 

"  We  must  talk  of  something  in  Forli.  The  only 
thing  I  hear  for  certain  is  that  he  insulted  you,  and 
you  were  prevented  from  getting  satisfaction." 


SO  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"That  will  come  later/' 

She  lowered  her  voice  and  took  my  arm. 

"But  my  brother  tells  me  that  Checco  d'Orsi  has 
made  you  promise  to  do  nothing/' 

"  I  shall  get  my  revenge,  —  having  to  wait  for  it 
will  only  make  it  sweeter." 

Then  supposing  she  had  nothing  further  to  say  to 
me,  I  stood  still,  as  if  expecting  her  to  leave  me. 
She  looked  up  suddenly. 

"  Am  I  incommoding  you  ? "  she  said. 

"  How  could  you  !  "  I  replied,  gallantly. 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"  How  can  such  an  idea  have  entered  your  head  ? 
Do  you  not  see  that  all  men  lie  humble  at  your  feet, 
attentive  to  every  word  and  gesture  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  but  not  you  !  " 

Of  course  I  protested. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  saw  very  well  that  you  avoided 
me.  When  you  came  in  here,  you  hardly  came 
near  me." 

"I  did  not  think  you  would  notice  my  inatten- 
tion." 

"  Certainly  I  noticed  it ;  I  was  afraid  I  had 
offended  you.  I  could  not  think  how." 

"My  dear  lady,  you  have  certainly  done  nothing 
to  offend  me." 

"Then  why  do  you  avoid  me?"  she  asked,  petu- 
lantly. 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  5  I 

"  Really,"  I  said,  "  I  don't.  Perhaps  in  my  mod- 
esty I  thought  it  would  be  a  matter  of  indifference 
to  you  whether  I  were  at  your  side  or  not.  I  am 
sorry  I  have  annoyed  you." 

"  I  don't  like  people  not  to  like  me,"  she  said,  in  a 
plaintive  way. 

"  But  why  should  you  think  I  do  not  like  you  ? 
Indeed,  without  flattery,  I  can  assure  you  that  I 
think  you  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  I  have 
ever  seen." 

A  faint  blush  came  over  her  cheeks,  and  a  smile 
broke  out  on  her  lips  ;  she  looked  up  at  me  with  a 
pretty,  reproachful  air. 

"Then,  why  don't  you  let  me  see  it  more  plainly?" 

I  smiled,  and,  looking  into  her  eyes,  was  struck  by 
their  velvet  softness.  I  almost  thought  she  was  as 
charming  as  she  was  beautiful. 

"  Do  you  really  wish  to  know  ? "  I  said,  in  reply  to 
her  question. 

"  Do  tell  me  !  "  she  said,  faintly  pressing  my  arm. 

"I  thought  you  had  so  many  admirers  that  you 
could  well  do  without  me." 

"But  you  see,"  she  answered,  charmingly,  "I 
cannot !  " 

"  And  then  I  have  a  certain  dislike  to  losing  my- 
self, in  a  crowd.  I  did  not  wish  to  share  your  smiles 
with  twenty  others." 

"  And  would  you  for  that  refuse  them  altogether  ?" 


52  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  I  have  always  avoided  the  woman  who  is  the  ob- 
ject of  general  admiration.  I  think  I  am  too  proud 
to  struggle  for  favours  ;  I  would  rather  dispense  with 
them." 

"  But,  then,  supposing  the  lady  wishes  to  favour 
you  especially,  you  do  not  give  her  the  opportunity. " 

"That  is  so  rare/'  I  replied,  "that  it  is  not  worth 
while  breaking  the  rule." 

"  But  it  may  happen." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  She  paused  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  said : 

"  You  do  like  me,  then,  after  all  ? " 

I  saw  a  slight  trembling  of  the  lip,  perhaps  the 
eyes  were  a  little  moist.  I  felt  sorry  for  what  I  had 
done. 

"  I  fear  I  have  given  you  pain,"  I  said. 

"You  have  a  little,"  she  replied. 

"  I  am  sorry.     I  thought  you  did  not  care." 

"  I  like  people  to  love  me  and  be  pleased  with  me." 

« I  do  both  !  " 

"Then  you  must  show  it,"  she  replied,  a  smile 
breaking  through  the  beginning  of  tears. 

I  really  had  been  brutal,  and  I  was  very  sorry  that 
I  had  caused  a  cloud  to  gather  over  her  sunshiny 
nature.  She  was  indeed  very  sweet  and  charming. 

"Well,  we  are  good  friends  now,  aren't  we?"  she 
said. 

"  Of  course." 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  53 

"  And  you'll  come  and  see  me  often  ? " 

"As  often  as  you  will  allow  me  to,"  I  answered. 
She  gave  me  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  a  bright,  happy 
smile  lit  up  her  face.  • 

"  A  rivederci  !  "  she  said. 

We  went  home,  and  Matteo  found  waiting  for  him 
a  message  from  Checco,  bidding  him  leave  the  inn 
and  take  up  his  quarters  with  me  at  the  Palazzo 
Orsi.  On  arriving,  we  found  Checco  excitedly  walk- 
ing up  and  down  a  long  corridor  lined  with  statues 
and  pictures. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  he  said  to  Matteo, 
taking  his  hand  and  nodding.  "  You  must  stay  here ; 
we  must  all  keep  together  now,  for  anything  may 
happen." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Matteo. 

"The  catastrophe  nearly  came  to-day." 

We  both  looked  at  him  with  astonishment,  not 
comprehending.  Checco  stood  still  abruptly. 

"He  tried  to  arrest  me  to-day,  —  Girolamo  !  " 
Then,  speaking  very  quickly,  as  if  labouring  under 
great  excitement,  "  I  had  to  go  to  the  Palace  on 
business.  I  found  him  in  the  audience-chamber,  and 
we  began  to  talk  certain  matters  over,  and  I  grew 
rather  heated.  Suddenly  I  noticed  that  the  place 
had  emptied  itself.  I  stopped  in  the  midst  of  my 
sentence  and  looked  up  at  Girolamo.  I  saw  he  was 
not  attending  to  me ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door." 


54  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

Checco  was  silent,  and  drops  of  perspiration  were 
standing  on  his  forehead. 

"Yes  !  Yes  !  "  we  both  said,  eagerly. 

"The  door  opened,  and  the  master  of  the  guard 
walked  in.  '  By  God  !  '  I  thought,  <  I'm  trapped  ! ' 
'  I  have  been  waiting  for  you,  Andrea,'  said  Giro- 
lamo.  Then  he  turned  to  me,  and  said,  *  Come  into 
the  Room  of  the  Nymphs,  Checco.  I  have  some 
papers  there  to  show  you/  He  took  hold  of  my 
arm.  I  loosed  myself.  '  I  pray  you,  excuse  me/  I 
said,  '  I  have  some  very  urgent  business/  I  walked 
to  the  door.  Andrea  glanced  at  his  master,  and  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  bar  my  way  ;  I  think  he  was 
waiting  for  some  sign,  but  before  it  came  I  had  seen 
through  the  open  door  Paolo  Bruni,  and  I  called  out, 
'  Paolo,  Paolo,  wait  for  me.  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
urgently.'  Then  I  knew  I  was  safe;  he  dared  not 
touch  me  ;  and  I  turned  around  and  said  again,  '  I 
pray  you,  excuse  me ;  my  business  with  Paolo  is  a 
matter  of  life  or  death.'  I  brushed  past  Andrea  and 
got  out.  By  heaven  !  how  I  breathed  when  I  found 
myself  in  the  piazza !  " 

"  But  are  you  sure  he  meant  to  arrest  you  ? "  said 
Matteo. 

"  Certain  ;  what  else  ? " 

"  Andrea  might  have  come  in  by  accident.  There 
may  have  been  nothing  in  it  at  all." 

"  I  was  not  deceived,"  answered  Checco,  earnestly. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  55 

"Their  looks  betrayed  them,  —  Andrea's  questioning 
glance.  I  know  he  wants  to  kill  me." 

"  But  would  he  dare  seize  you  in  cold  blood  ? " 

"  He  cares  for  nothing,  when  he  has  an  object  in 
view.  Besides,  when  he  had  me  in  his  power,  what 
could  have  been  done  ?  I  know  Girolamo  too  well. 
There  would  have  been  a  mock  trial,  and  I  should 
have  been  condemned.  Or  else  he  would  have  me 
strangled  in  my  cell.  And  when  I  had  gone  you  would 
have  been  helpless,  —  my  father  is  too  old,  and  there 
would  have  been  no  leader  to  the  party  but  you,  — 
and  what  could  you  do  alone  ? " 

We  all  remained  silent  for  awhile,  then  Checco 
broke  out : 

"  I  know  he  wants  to  rid  himself  of  me.  He  has 
threatened  before,  but  has  never  gone  so  far  as  this." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Matteo ;  "things  are 
becoming  grave." 

"  It  is  not  so  much  for  myself  I  care ;  but  what 
would  happen  to  my  children  ?  My  father  is  safe,  — 
he  is  so  old  and  helpless  that  they  would  never  think 
of  touching  him,  —  but  my  boys  ?  Caterina  would 
throw  them  into  prison  without  a  scruple." 

"Well,"  said  Matteo,  "what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"What  can  I  do?"  he  answered.  "I  have  been 
racking  my  brains,  and  I  see  no  way  of  safety.  I 
can  wear  a  coat  of  mail  to  preserve  me  from  the 
stray  knife  of  an  assassin,  but  that  will  not  help  me 


5  6  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

against  a  troop  of  soldiers.  I  can  leave  Forli,  but 
that  is  to  abandon  everything." 

"No,  you  must  not  leave  Forli,  —  anything  but 
that ! " 

"What  can  I  do  ?  What  can  I  do  ? "  He  stamped 
his  foot  on  the  ground,  as  if  almost  in  desperation. 

"  One  thing,"  said  Matteo,  "you  must  not  go  about 
alone,  —  always  with  at  least  two  friends." 

"Yes,  I  have  thought  of  that.  But  how  will  it  all 
turn  out ;  it  cannot  last.  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

He  turned  to  me. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  he  said.  "  He  means  to 
kill  me." 

"  Why  not  anticipate  him  ?  "  I  answered,  quietly. 

They  both  started  up  with  a  cry. 

"Kill  him!" 

"  Assassination !  I  dare  not,  I  dare  not ! "  said 
Checco,  very  excitedly.  "  I  will  do  all  I  can  by  fair 
means,  but  assassination  —  " 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"It  seems  a  matter  of  self-preservation,"  I  said. 

"  No,  no ;  I  won't  speak  of  it !  I  won't  think  of 
it !  "  He  began  again  to  walk  excitedly  up  and  down 
the  room.  "  I  won't  think  of  it,  I  tell  you.  I  could 
not." 

Neither  Matteo  nor  I  spoke. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?"  he  said  to  Matteo,  im- 
patiently. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  57 

"  I  am  thinking,"  he  answered. 

"  Not  of  that ;  I  forbid  you  to  think  of  that.  I 
will  not  have  it."  Then,  after  a  pause,  abruptly,  as 
if  he  were  angry  with  us  and  with  himself,  "  Leave 
me!" 


CHAPTER   V. 

A  FEW  days  later,  Matteo  came  to  me,  as  I  was 
dressing,  having  rescued  my  clothes  from  him. 

"  I  wonder  you're  not  ashamed  to  go  out  in  those 
garments/'  he  remarked  ;  "  people  will  say  that  you 
wear  my  old  things." 

I  took  no  notice  of  the  insult. 

"Where  are  you  going  ? "  he  asked. 

"To  Madonna  Giulia." 

"  But  you  went  there  yesterday !  " 

"That  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  go  to-day. 
She  asked  me  to  come." 

"That's  very  obliging  of  her,  I'm  sure."  Then, 
after  a  pause,  during  which  I  continued  my  toilet,  "  I 
have  been  gathering  the  news  of  Forli." 

"Oh!" 

"  Madonna  Giula  has  been  affording  a  great  deal  of 
interest.  .  .  ." 

"You  have  been  talking  to  the  lady  whom  you 
call  the  beautiful  Claudia,"  I  said. 

"  By  the  way,  why  have  you  not  been  to  her  ? " 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  I  said.  "  Why  should  I  ? " 
58 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  59 

"  You  told  me  you  had  progressed  a  long  way  in 
her  favours  during  the  half-hour's  talk  you  had  with 
her  the  other  night;  have  you  not  followed  up  the 
advantage  ? " 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"I  don't  think  I  like  a  woman  to  make  all  the 
advances." 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  said  Matteo.     "  I  do  ! " 

"Besides,  I  don't  care  for  the  type;  she  is  too 
massive." 

"  She  feels  very  much  hurt  at  your  neglect.  She 
says  you  have  fallen  in  love  with  Giulia." 

"  That  is  absurd,"  I  replied ;  "  and  as  to  her  being 
hurt  at  my  neglect,  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  don't  feel 
any  obligation  to  throw  myself  into  the  arms  of  every 
woman  who  chooses  to  open  them." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you ;  neither  she  nor  Giulia 
are  a  bit  better  than  they  should  be.  I'm  told 
Giulia' s  latest  lover  is  Amtrogio  della  Treccia.  It 
seems  one  day  he  was  almost  caught  by  old  Bartolo- 
meo,  and  had  to  slip  out  of  the  window  and  perform 
feats  worthy  of  a  professional  acrobat  to  get  out  of 
the  way." 

"I  don't  think  I  attach  belief  to  all  the  scandal 
circulating  on  the  subject  of  that  lady." 

"  You're  not  in  love  with  her  ? "  asked  Matteo, 
quickly. 

I  laughed. 


6O  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Certainly  not.     But  still  —  " 

"That's  all  right;  because,  of  course,  you  know 
it's  notorious  that  she  has  had  the  most  disgraceful 
amours.  And  she  hasn't  even  kept  them  to  her  own 
class ;  all  sorts  of  people  have  enjoyed  her  favours." 

"She  does  not  look  very  much  like  a  Messalina," 
I  said,  sneering  a  little. 

"  Honestly,  Filippo,  I  do  think  she  is  really  very 
little  better  than  a  harlot." 

"You  are  extremely  charitable,"  I  said.  "But 
don't  you  think  you  are  somewhat  prejudiced  by  the 
fact  that  you  yourself  did  not  find  her  one  ?  Besides, 
her  character  makes  no  particular  difference  to  me ; 
I  really  care  nothing  if  she's  good  or  bad;  she  is 
agreeable,  and  that  is  all  I  care  about.  She  is  not 
going  to  be  my  wife." 

"  She  may  make  you  very  unhappy ;  you  won't  be 
the  first." 

"What  a  fool  you  are!"  I  said,  a  little  angrily. 
"You  seem  to  think  that  because  I  go  and  see  a 
woman  I  must  be  dying  of  love  for  her.  You  are 
absurd." 

I  left  him,  and  soon  found  myself  at  the  Palazzo 
Aste,  where  Donna  Giulia  was  waiting  for  me.  I 
had  been  to  see  her  nearly  every  day  since  my  arrival 
in  Forli,  for  I  really  liked  her.  Naturally,  I  was  not 
in  love  with  her,  as  Matteo  suggested,  and  I  had  no 
intention  of  entering  into  that  miserable  state.  I  had 


MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  6 1 

found  her  charmingly  simple,  very  different  from  the 
monster  of  dissipation  she  was  supposed  to  be.  She 
must  have  been  three  or  four  and  twenty,  but  in  all 
her  ways  she  was  quite  girlish,  merry,  and  thought- 
less, full  of  laughter  at  one  moment,  and  then  some 
trifling  thing  would  happen  to  discompose  her  and 
she  would  be  brought  to  the  verge  of  tears ;  but  a 
word  or  caress,  even  a  compliment,  would  make  her 
forget  the  unhappiness  which  had  appeared  so  terri- 
ble, and  in  an  instant  she  would  be  full  of  smiles. 
She  seemed  so  delightfully  fragile,  so  delicate,  so 
weak,  that  one  felt  it  necessary  to  be  very  gentle 
with  her.  I  could  not  imagine  how  any  one  could 
use  a  hard  word  to  her  face. 

Her  eyes  lit  up  as  she  saw  me. 

"  How  long  you've  been,"  she  said.  "  I  thought 
you  were  never  coming." 

She  always  seemed  so  glad  to  see  you  that  you 
thought  she  must  have  been  anxiously  awaiting 
you,  and  that  you  were  the  very  person  of  all  others 
that  she  wished  to  have  with  her.  Of  course,  I  knew 
it  was  an  affectation,  but  it  was  a  very  charming  one. 

"  Come  and  sit  by  me  here,"  she  said,  making  room 
for  me  on  a  couch ;  then,  when  I  had  sat  down,  she 
nestled  close  up  to  me  in  her  pretty  childish  way,  as 
if  seeking  protection.  "  Now,  tell  me  all  youVe  been 
doing." 

"  I've  been  talking  to  Matteo,"  I  said. 


62  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  What  about  ?  " 

"You." 

"  Tell  me  what  he  said." 

"  Nothing  to  your  credit,  my  dear/'  I  said,  laughing. 

"  Poor  Matteo  !  "  she  answered.  "  He's  such  a 
clumsy,  lumbering  creature,  one  can  see  he's  spent 
half  his  life  in  camps." 

"  And  I  ?  I  have  spent  the  same  life  as  Matteo. 
Am  I  a  clumsy,  lumbering  creature?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  "  you  are  quite  differ- 
ent." She  put  the  pleasantest  compliments  in  the 
look  of  her  eyes. 

"  Matteo  told  me  all  sorts  of  scandal  about  you." 

She  blushed  a  little. 

"  Did  you  believe  it  ?  " 

"  I  said  I  did  not  much  care  if  it  were  true  or  not." 

"  But  do  you  believe  it  ?  "  she  asked,  insisting. 

"  If  you'll  tell  me  it  is  not  true,  I  will  believe  abso- 
lutely what  you  say." 

The  little  anxious  look  on  her  face  gave  way  to  a 
bright  smile. 

"  Of  course,  it  is  not  true." 

"  How  beautiful  you  are  when  you  smile,"  I  re- 
marked, irrelevantly.  "You  should  always  smile." 

"  I  always  do  on  you,"  she  answered.  She  opened 
her  mouth,  as  if  about  to  speak,  held  back,  as  if  un- 
able to  make  up  her  mind,  then  said,  "  Did  Matteo 
tell  you  he  made  love  to  me  once,  and  was  very 


THE  MAKIATG   OF  A   SAINT.  63 

angry  because  I  would  not  pick  up  the  handkerchief 
which  he  had  condescended  to  throw." 

"  He  mentioned  it." 

"  Since  then  I  am  afraid  he  has  not  had  very  much 
good  to  say  of  me." 

I  had  thought  at  the  time  that  Matteo  was  a  little 
bitter  in  his  account  of  Donna  Giulia,  and  I  felt 
more  inclined  to  believe  her  version  of  the  story 
than  his. 

"  He  has  been  beseeching  me  not  to  fall  in  love 
with  you,"  I  said. 

She  laughed. 

"  Claudia  Piacentini  has  been  telling  every  one  that 
it  is  too  late,  and  she  is  horridly  jealous." 

"  Has  she  ?  Matteo  also  seemed  certain  I  was 
in  love  with  you." 

"  And  are  you  ?  "  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"  No  !  "  I  replied,  with  great  promptness. 

"  Brutta  bestia!"  she  said,  throwing  herself  to 
the  end  of  the  couch,  and  beginning  to  pout 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  I  said,  laughing,  "  but  I  cannot 
help  it." 

"  I  think  it  is  horrid  of  you,"  she  remarked. 

"  You  have  so  many  adorers,"  I  said,  in  expostula- 
tion. 

"Yes,  but  I  want  more,"  she  smiled. 

"  But  what  good  can  it  do  you  to  have  all  these 
people  in  love  with  you  ? " 


64  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said ;  "it  is  a  pleasant  sensa- 
tion/' 

"  What  a  child  you  are !  "  I  answered,  laughing. 

She  bent  forward  seriously. 

"  But  are  you  not  at  all  in  love  with  me  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head.  She  came  close  up  to  me,  so 
that  her  hair  brushed  lightly  against  my  cheek ;  it 
sent  a  shiver  through  me.  I  looked  at  her  tiny  ear  ; 
it  was  beautifully  shaped,  transparent  as  a  pink  shell. 
Unconsciously,  quite  without  intention,  I  kissed  it. 
She  pretended  to  take  no  notice,  and  I  was  full  of 
confusion.  I  felt  myself  blushing  furiously. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ? "  she  said,  gravely. 

I  got  up  to  go,  foolishly,  rather  angry  with  myself. 

"  When  shall  I  see  you  again  ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  am  going  to  confession  to-morrow.  Be  at  San 
Stefano  at  ten,  and  we  can  have  a  little  talk  in  the 
church  when  I  have  finished." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THERE  had  been  a  great  commotion  in  Forli  dur- 
ing the  last  two  days  ;  for  it  had  become  known  that 
the  country  people  of  the  count's  domain  had  sent 
a  petition  for  the  removal  of  certain  taxes  which 
pressed  so  heavily  upon  them  that  the  land  was 
speedily  going  to  ruin.  The  proprietors  were  dis- 
missing their  labourers,  the  houses  of  the  peasants 
were  falling  into  decay,  and  in  certain  districts  the 
poverty  had  reached  such  a  height  that  the  farmers 
had  not  even  grain  wherewith  to  sow  their  fields,  and 
all  around  the  ground  was  lying  bare  and  desolate. 
A  famine  had  been  the  result,  and  if  the  previous 
year  the  countrymen  had  found  it  difficult  to  pay 
their  taxes,  this  year  they  found  it  impossible.  Giro- 
lamo  had  listened  to  their  arguments,  and  knew  them 
to  be  true.  After  considering  with  his  councillors, 
he  had  resolved  to  remit  certain  of  the  more  oppres- 
sive taxes  ;  but  in  doing  this  he  was  confronted  with 
the  fact  that  his  Treasury  was  already  empty,  and 
that,  if  the  income  were  further  diminished,  it  would 

65 


66  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

be  impossible  for  him  to  meet  the  demands  of  the 
coming  year. 

It  was  clear  that  the  country  could  not  pay,  and  it 
was  clear  that  the  money  must  be  procured.  He  set 
his  eyes  on  the  town,  and  saw  that  it  was  rich  and 
flourishing,  but  he  dared  not,  on  his  own  initiative, 
propose  any  increase  in  its  burdens.  He  called  a 
council,  showed  the  state  of  his  affairs,  and  asked  the 
elders  for  advice.  No  one  stirred  or  spoke.  At  last, 
Antonio  Lassi,  a  creature  of  the  count,  whom  he  had 
raised  to  the  council  from  a  humble  position,  rose  to 
his  feet  and  gave  utterance  to  the  plan  which  his 
master  had  suggested  to  him.  The  pith  of  it  was  to 
abrogate  the  taxes  on  the  country  people,  and  in 
compensation  place  others  on  certain  food-stuffs  and 
wines,  which  had  previously  gone  free.  Girolamo 
answered  in  a  studied  speech,  pretending  great  un- 
willingness to  charge  what  were  the  necessaries  of 
life,  and  asked  several  of  the  more  prominent  mem- 
bers what  they  thought  of  the  suggestion.  They  had 
met  Antonio  Lassi's  speech  with  silence,  and  now 
applauded  Girolamo's  answer ;  they  agreed  with  him 
that  such  taxes  should  not  be.  Then  the  count 
changed  his  tone.  He  said  it  was  the  only  means  of 
raising  the  money,  and,  gathering  anger  from  their 
sullen  looks  and  their  silence,  he  told  them  that  if 
they  would  not  give  their  sanction  to  the  decree,  he 
would  do  without  their  sanction.  Then,  breaking 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  6/ 

short,  he  asked  them  for  their  answer.  The  coun- 
cillors looked  at  one  another,  rather  pale,  but  deter- 
mined ;  and  the  reply  came  from  one  after  the  other, 
quietly  : 

"No  —  no  —  no  !  " 

Antonio  Lassi  was  cowed,  and  dared  not  give  his 
answer  at  all.  The  count,  with  an  oath,  beat  his  fist 
on  the  table,  and  said,  "  I  am  determined  to  be  lord 
and  master  here ;  and  you  shall  learn,  all  of  you,  that 
my  will  is  law." 

With  that  he  dismissed  them. 

When  the  people  heard  the  news,  there  was  great 
excitement.  The  murmurs  against  the  count,  which 
had  hitherto  been  cautiously  expressed,  were  now 
cried  out  in  the  market-place ;  the  extravagance  of 
the  countess  was  bitterly  complained  of,  and  the 
townsmen  gathered  together  in  groups,  talking  heat- 
edly of  the  proposed  exaction,  occasionally  breaking 
out  into  open  menace.  It  was  very  like  sedition. 

On  the  day  after  the  council,  the  head  of  the  cus- 
toms had  been  almost  torn  to  pieces  by  the  people  as 
he  was  walking  towards  the  Palace,  and  on  his  way 
back  he  was  protected  by  a  troop  of  soldiers.  Antonio 
Lassi  was  met  everywhere  with  hoots  and  cries,  and 
Checco  d'Orsi,  meeting  him  in  the  loggia  of  the 
piazza,  had  assailed  him  with  taunts  and  bitter  sar- 
casms. Ercole  Piacentini  interposed,  and  the  quarrel 
nearly  ended  in  a  brawl ;  but  Checco,  with  difficulty 


68  THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

restraining  himself,  withdrew  before  anything  hap- 
pened. .  .  . 

On  leaving  Donna  Giulia,  I  walked  to  the  piazza 
and  found  the  same  restlessness  as  on  the  preceding 
days.  Through  all  these  people  a  strange  commotion 
seemed  to  pass,  a  tremor  like  the  waves  of  the  sea ; 
everywhere  little  knots  of  people  were  listening  ea- 
gerly to  some  excited  speaker ;  no  one  seemed  able 
to  work ;  the  tradesmen  were  gathered  at  their  doors, 
talking  with  one  another;  idlers  were  wandering  to 
and  fro,  now  joining  themselves  to  one  group,  now 
to  another. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  silence ;  part  of  the  crowd 
began  looking  eagerly  in  one  direction,  and  the  rest 
in  their  curiosity  surged  to  the  end  of  the  piazza  to 
see  what  was  happening.  Then  it  was  seen  that 
Caterina  was  approaching.  She  entered  the  place, 
and  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  As  usual,  she  was 
magnificently  attired ;  her  neck  and  hands  and  arms, 
her  waistband  and  headgear,  shone  with  jewels ;  she 
was  accompanied  by  several  of  her  ladies,  and  two  or 
three  soldiers  as  guard.  The  crowd  separated  to  let 
her  pass,  and  she  walked  proudly  between  the  serried 
rows  of  people,  her  head  uplifted  and  her  eyes  fixed 
straight  in  front,  as  if  she  were  unaware  that  any  one 
was  looking  at  her.  A  few  obsequiously  took  off  their 
hats,  but  most  gave  no  greeting  ;  all  around  her  was 
silence,  a  few  murmurs,  an  oath  or  two  muttered 


THE    MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  69 

under  breath,  but  that  was  all.  She  walked  steadily 
on,  and  entered  the  Palace  gates.  At  once  a  thou- 
sand voices  burst  forth,  and,  after  the  deadly  stillness, 
the  air  seemed  filled  with  confused  sounds.  Curses 
and  imprecations  were  hurled  on  her  from  every  side  ; 
they  railed  at  her  pride,  they  called  her  foul  names. 
.  .  .  Six  years  before,  when  she  happened  to  cross 
the  streets,  the  people  had  hurried  forward  to  look  at 
her,  with  joy  in  their  hearts  and  blessings  on  their 
lips.  They  vowed  they  would  die  for  her  ;  they  were 
in  ecstacies  at  her  graciousness. 

I  went  home  thinking  of  all  these  things  and  of 
Donna  Giulia.  I  was  rather  amused  at  my  uninten- 
tional kiss ;  I  wondered  if  she  were  thinking  of  me. 
.  .  .  She  really  was  a  charming  creature,  and  I  was 
glad  at  the  idea  of  seeing  her  again  on  the  morrow. 
I  liked  her  simple,  fervent  piety.  She  was  in  the 
habit  of  going  regularly  to  mass,  and,  happening  to 
see  her  one  day,  I  was  struck  with  her  devout  air, 
full  of  faith  ;  she  also  went  to  confessional  frequently. 
It  was  rather  absurd  to  think  she  was  the  perverse 
being  people  pretended.  .  .  . 

When  I  reached  the  Palazzo  Orsi  I  found  the 
same  excitement  as  outside  in  the  piazza.  Girolamo 
had  heard  of  the  dispute  in  the  loggia,  and  had  sent 
for  Checco,  to  hear  his  views  on  the  subject  of  the 
tax.  The  audience  was  fixed  for  the  following  morn- 
ing at  eleven,  and  as  Checco  never  went  anywhere 


7O  THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

without  attendants,  Scipione  Moratini,  Giulia's  sec- 
ond brother,  and  I  were  appointed  to  accompany 
him.  Matteo  was  not  to  go,  for  fear  of  the  presence 
of  the  two  most  prominent  members  of  the  family 
tempting  the  count  to  some  sudden  action. 

The  following  morning  I  arrived  at  San  Stefano 
at  half  past  nine,  and  to  my  surprise  found  Giulia 
waiting  for  me. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  would  be  out  of  the  confes- 
sional so  soon,"  I  said.  "  Were  your  sins  so  small 
this  week  ? " 

"  I  haven't  been,"  she  answered.  "  Scipione  told 
me  that  you  and  he  were  to  accompany  Checco  to 
the  Palace,  and  I  thought  you  would  have  to  leave 
here  early,  so  I  postponed  the  confessional." 

"  You  have  preferred  earth  and  me  to  heaven  and 
the  worthy  father?" 

"  You  know  I  would  do  more  for  you  than  that," 
she  answered. 

"  You  witch  !  " 

She  took  my  arm. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "come  and  sit  in  one  of  the 
transept  chapels  ;  it  is  quiet  and  dark  there." 

It  was  deliciously  cool.  The  light  came  dimly 
through  the  coloured  glass,  clothing  the  marble  of 
the  chapel  in  mysterious  reds  and  purples,  and  the 
air  was  faintly  scented  with  incense.  Sitting  there, 
she  seemed  to  gain  a  new  charm.  Before,  I  had 


THE  MAKING   OF  A'  SAINT.  J I 

never  really  appreciated  the  extreme  beauty  of  the 
brown  hair  tinged  with  red,  its  wonderful  quality  and 
luxuriance.  I  tried  to  think  of  something  to  say, 
but  could  not.  I  sat  and  looked  at  her,  and  the  per- 
fumes of  her  body  blended  with  the  incense. 

"Why  don't  you  speak  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I'm  sorry;   I  have  nothing  to  say." 

She  laughed. 

"Tell  me  of  what  you  are  thinking." 

"I  daren't,"  I  said. 

She  looked  at  me,  repeating  the  wish  with  her  eyes. 

"I  was  thinking  you  were  very  beautiful." 

She  turned  to  me  and  leant  forward  so  that  her 
face  was  close  to  mine ;  her  eyes  acquired  a  look  of 
deep,  voluptuous  languor.  We  sat  without  speaking, 
and  my  head  began  to  whirl. 

The  clock  struck  ten. 

"I  must  go,"  I  said,  breaking  the  silence. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "but  come  to-night  and  tell 
me  what  has  happened." 

I  promised  I  would,  then  asked  whether  I  should 
lead  her  to  another  part  of  the  church. 

"No,  leave  me  here,"  she  said.  "It  is  so  good 
and  quiet.  I  will  stay  and  think." 

"Of  what?"  I  said. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  she  smiled  so  that  I  under- 
stood her  answer. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  HURRIED  back  to  the  Palazzo  and  found  Scipione 
Moratini  already  arrived.  I  liked  him  for  his  sister's 
sake,  but  in  himself  he  was  a  pleasant  person. 

Both  he  and  his  brother  had  something  of  Giulia 
in  them,  —  the  delicate  features,  the  fascination,  and 
the  winning  ways,  which  in  them  seemed  almost  ef- 
feminate. Their  mother  had  been  a  very  beautiful 
woman,  —  report  said  somewhat  gay,  —  and  it  was 
from  her  the  sons  had  got  the  gallantry  which  made 
them  the  terror  of  husbands  in  Forli,  and  Giulia  the 
coquetry  which  had  given  rise  to  so  much  scandal. 
The  father,  Bartolomeo,  was  quite  different.  He 
was  a  rugged,  upright  man  of  sixty,  very  grave  and 
very  dignified,  the  only  resemblance  of  feature  to 
his  children  being  the  charming  smile,  which  the 
sons  possessed  as  well  as  Giulia,  though  in  him  it 
was  rarely  seen.  What  I  liked  most  in  him  was  the 
blind  love  for  his  daughter,  leading  him  to  unbend 
and  become  a  youth  to  flatter  her  folly.  He  was 
really  devoted  to  her,  so  that  it  was  quite  pathetic 
to  see  the  look  of  intense  affection  in  his  eyes  as  he 

72 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  73 

followed  her  movements.  He,  of  course,  had  never 
heard  a  word  of  the  rumours  circulating  about 
Giulia ;  he  had  the  utmost  faith  in  her  virtue,  and  I, 
it  seems  to  me,  had  gained  faith  from  him. 

After  talking  awhile  with  Scipione,  Checco  came, 
and  we  started  for  the  Palazzo.  The  people  in  Forli 
know  everything,  and  were  well  aware  of  Checco' s 
mission.  As  we  walked  along  we  were  met  by  many 
kind  greetings,  good  luck  and  Godspeed  were  wished 
us,  and  Checco,  beaming  with  joy,  graciously  re- 
turned the  salutations. 

We  were  ushered  into  the  council-chamber,  where 
we  found  the  councillors  and  many  of  the  more  prom- 
inent citizens,  and  several  gentlemen  of  the  Court ; 
immediately  the  great  folding  doors  were  opened, 
and  Girolamo  entered  with  his  wonted  state,  accom- 
panied by  his  courtiers  and  men-at-arms,  so  that  the 
hall  was  filled  with  them.  He  took  his  seat  on  a 
throne,  and  graciously  bowed  to  the  left  and  to  the 
right.  His  courtiers  responded,  but  the  citizens  pre- 
served a  severe  aspect,  quite  unsympathetic,  towards 
his  condescension. 

Girolamo  rose  to  his  feet  and  made  a  short  speech, 
in  which  he  extolled  Checco' s  wisdom  and  knowl- 
edge and  patriotism,  saying  he  had  heard  of  a  con- 
troversy between  him  and  Antonio  Lassi  on  the 
subject  of  the  proposed  tax,  and  consequently  had 
sent  for  him  to  hear  his  opinion  on  the  subject. 


74  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

He  stopped  and  looked  around  ;  his  courtiers  obse- 
quiously applauded.  Then,  at  opposite  ends  of  the 
room,  doors  opened,  and  through  each  filed  a  string 
of  soldiers ;  the  citizens  looked  at  one  another,  won- 
dering. A  flourish  of  trumpets  was  heard  in  the 
piazza  outside,  and  the  tramp  of  soldiers.  Girolamo 
waited  ;  at  last  he  proceeded  : 

"  A  good  prince  owes  this  to  his  subjects,  —  to  do 
nothing  against  their  will  freely  expressed ;  and 
though  I  could  command,  for  I  am  placed  here  by 
the  Vicar  of  Christ  himself,  with  absolute  power  over 
your  lives  and  fortunes,  yet  such  is  my  love  and 
affection  towards  you  that  I  do  not  disdain  to  ask 
your  advice." 

The  courtiers  broke  out  into  a  murmur  of  surprise 
and  self-congratulation  at  his  infinite  graciousness  ; 
the  trumpets  flourished  again,  and  in  the  succeeding 
silence  could  be  heard  cries  of  command  from  the 
officers  in  the  square,  while  from  the  soldiers  stand- 
ing about  the  hall  there  was  a  clank  of  swords  and 
spurs, 

Checco  rose  from  his  seat.  He  was  pale,  and  he 
almost  seemed  to  hesitate ;  I  wondered  if  the  sol- 
diers had  had  the  effect  which  Girolamo  intended. 
Then  he  began  to  speak,  quietly,  in  even,  well-turned 
sentences,  so  that  one  could  see  the  speech  had  been 
carefully  thought  out. 

He  called  to  mind  his  own  affection  for  Girolamo, 


THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  ?$ 

and  the  mutual  friendship  which  had  solaced  many 
hours  of  doubt  and  difficulty,  and  assured  him  of  his 
unalterable  fidelity  to  himself  and  his  family ;  then 
he  reminded  him  of  the  love  borne  by  the  people 
towards  their  ruler,  and  their  consciousness  of  an 
equal  love  on  the  part  of  the  count  towards  them- 
selves. He  drew  a  picture  of  the  joy  in  Forli  when 
first  Girolamo  came  to  it,  and  of  the  enthusiasm 
caused  by  the  sight  of  him  or  his  wife  walking 
through  the  streets. 

There  was  a  little  applause,  chiefly  from  the 
count's  suite  ;  Checco  paused  as  if  he  had  come  to 
the  end  of  his  preface,  and  was  gathering  himself  up 
for  the  real  matter  of  his  speech.  There  was  deadly 
silence  in  the  hall,  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  him,  and  all 
minds  were  asking  themselves,  "  What  will  he  say  ? " 
Girolamo  was  leaning  forward,  resting  his  chin  on  his 
hand,  looking  anxious.  I  wondered  if  he  regretted 
that  he  had  called  the  meeting. 

Checco  resumed  his  speech. 

" Girolamo,"  he  said,  "the  people  from  the  coun- 
try districts  lately  sent  you  a  petition,  in  which  they 
showed  their  sufferings  from  rain,  and  storm,  and 
famine,  their  poverty  and  misery,  the  oppressiveness 
of  the  taxes.  They  bade  you  come  and  look  at  their 
untilled  fields,  their  houses  falling  to  ruin,  themselves 
dying  by  the  roadside,  naked  and  hungry,  children 
expiring  at  their  mothers'  breasts,  parents  lying  un- 


76  THE  MAKING   t)F  A   SAINT. 

buried  in  the  ruin  of  their  home.  They  bade  you 
come  and  look  at  the  desolation  of  the  land,  and 
implored  you  to  help  them  while  there  was  yet  time, 
and  lighten  from  their  backs  the  burdens  you  had 
laid  upon  them. 

"  You  turned  an  eye  of  pity  on  them ;  and  now 
the  land  smiles,  the  people  have  shaken  themselves 
from  their  sleep  of  death,  and  awakened  to  new  life, 
and  everywhere  prayers  are  offered,  and  blessings 
rained  on  the  head  of  the  most  high  and  magnificent 
prince,  Girolamo  Riario. 

"And  we,  too,  my  lord,  join  in  the  thanks  and 
praise  ;  for  these  to  whom  you  have  given  new  life 
are  our  cousins  and  brothers,  our  fellow  countrymen." 

What  was  coming  ?  The  councillors  looked  at  one 
another  questioningly.  Could  Checco  have  made 
terms  with  the  count,  and  was  it  a  comedy  they 
were  playing  ?  Girolamo  also  was  surprised  ;  he  had 
not  for  long  heard  praise  from  any  but  his  courtiers. 

"  Eight  years  ago,  when  you  acquired  the  sov- 
ereignty of  Forli,  you  found  the  town  weighed  down 
under  the  taxes  which  the  Ordelaffi  had  imposed. 
Depression  had  seized  hold  of  the  merchants  and 
tradesmen ;  they  were  burdened  so  that  they  could 
not  buy  nor  sell ;  they  had  given  up  effort,  and  the 
town  was  lying  numb  and  cold,  as  if  dying  from  a 
pestilence.  The  streets  were  deserted  ;  such  people 
as  there  were  moved  sadly,  and  with  downturned 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  J? 

faces.  The  inhabitants  were  becoming  fewer ;  there 
was  no  motion,  no  life ;  a  few  years  more  and  Forli 
would  have  become  a  city  of  the  dead ! 

"  But  you  came,  and  with  you  life ;  for  your  first 
deed  was  to  remove  the  most  oppressive  imposts. 
As  the  bow,  doubled  up,  when  the  string  is  loosened 
shoots  back  with  a  sudden  impulse  which  propels 
the  arrow  to  its  mark,  so  Forli  rebounded  from  the 
weight  it  had  borne  before.  The  Goddess  of  Plenty 
reigned  in  the  land ;  it  was  the  sunlight  after  storm  ; 
everywhere  life  and  activity !  The  merchant  wrote 
busily  at  his  desk,  the  tradesman  spread  his  wares 
anew  and  laughed  in  the  joy  of  his  heart.  The 
mason,  the  builder,  the  blacksmith,  returned  to  their 
work,  and  through  the  city  was  heard  the  sound  of 
hammering  and  building.  The  news  spread  of  a 
beneficent  lord,  and  the  goldsmith  and  silversmith, 
the  painter,  the  sculptor,  came  to  the  city  in  throngs. 
The  money  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  in  its 
passage  seemed  to  increase  by  magic.  On  the  faces 
of  all  was  happiness  ;  the  apprentice  sung  as  he 
worked,  and  mirth  and  joy  were  universal ;  Forli 
became  known  as  the  home  of  delight;  Italy  rang 
with  its  feasts  and  celebrations,  —  and  every  citizen 
was  proud  to  be  a  Forlivese. 

"  And  everywhere  prayers  were  offered,  and  bless- 
ings rained  on  the  head  of  the  most  high  and  magnif- 
icent prince,  Girolamo  Riario." 


78  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

Checco  paused  again.  An  inkling  of  his  meaning 
was  coming  to  his  hearers,  but  they  dared  not  think 
he  would  say  what  was  in  all  their  minds. 

"  Then,"  Checco  went  on,  "  you  reimposed  the 
taxes  which  you  had  taken  off." 

"  That  is  a  lie  !  "  interrupted  Girolamo.  "  They 
were  imposed  by  the  council." 

Checco  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiling  ironi- 
cally. 

"  I  remember  quite  well.  You  called  a  meeting 
of  the  Ancients,  and,  showing  them  your  neces- 
sities, suggested  that  they  should  reimpose  the 
taxes. 

"  I  forget  if  you  reminded  them  that  you  could 
command,  and  that  you  were  placed  here  by  the 
Vicar  of  Christ  on  earth. 

"And  you  forbore  to  let  us  hear  the  ring  of 
trumpets  and  the  tramp  of  soldiery  in  the  square. 
Nor  did  you  think  such  a  numerous  suite  necessary 
for  your  dignity." 

He  looked  around  at  the  soldiers,  thoughtfully 
stroking  his  beard. 

"Proceed!"  said  Girolamo,  impatiently;  he  was 
beginning  to  get  angry. 

Checco,  in  talking,  had  recovered  the  assurance 
which  at  first  seemed  to  fail  him.  He  smiled  politely, 
at  the  count's  command,  and  said  : 

"  I  will  come  to  the  point  at  once. 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  79 

"  You  replaced  the  taxes  which  you  had  taken 
away,  and  thereby  undid  the  benefit  you  had  done. 
The  town  soon  felt  the  effect  of  the  change ;  its 
prosperity  is  already  declining,  and  it  is  not  doubtful 
that  a  few  years  more  will  bring  it  to  the  condition 
in  which  you  found  it.  And  who  knows,  perhaps 
its  last  state  may  be  worse  than  its  first  ? 

"  And  now  you  propose  to  make  the  townspeople 
pay  the  duties  which  you  have  taken  off  the  country- 
folk. You  have  sent  for  me  to  ask  my  advice  on  the 
subject,  and  here  I  give  it  you. 

"  Do  not  put  on,  but  take  off.  In  the  name  of  the 
people,  I  beseech  you  to  do  away  with  the  taxes  you 
imposed  four  years  ago,  and  return  to  the  happy 
state  of  the  first  years  of  your  rule." 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  with  outstretched  arm 
pointing  to  the  count,  he  added,  solemnly,  "  Or 
Girolamo  Riario,  the  magnificent  prince,  may  share 
the  fate  of  the  OrdelafH,  who  ruled  the  town  for 
two  centuries,  and  now  wander  homeless  about  the 
land." 

There  was  a  cry  all  around  the  room.  They  were 
astounded  at  his  audacity.  Girolamo  had  started  in 
his  chair, — his  eyes  were  staring,  his  face  red;  he 
was  dumb  with  rage.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  the 
words  died  in  his  throat,  and  nothing  was  heard  but 
an  inarticulate  murmur.  The  soldiers  and  courtiers 
were  looking  at  one  another  in  surprise;  they  did 


8O  THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

not  know  what  to  do  or  think ;  they  looked  at  their 
master,  but  found  no  help  in  him.  The  citizens 
were  bewildered,  and  by  turns  felt  wonder,  dismay, 
fear,  pleasure ;  they  could  not  understand.  .  .  . 

"  O  Girolamo ! "  said  Checco,  unmindful  of  the 
excitement  around  him,  "  I  do  not  say  these  things  in 
enmity  to  you.  Come  among  your  people  yourself, 
and  see  their  wants  with  your  own  eyes.  Do  not 
believe  what  your  courtiers  tell  you,  —  do  not  think 
the  land  in  your  charge  is  a  captured  town  which 
you  can  spoil  at  your  pleasure.  You  have  been 
placed  here  as  a  guardian  in  our  perils  and  an  assist- 
ance in  our  necessities. 

"  You  are  a  stranger  here ;  you  do  not  know  this 
people  as  I  know  it.  They  will  be  faithful,  meek, 
obedient,  —  but  do  not  rob  them  of  the  money  they 
have  hardly  earned,  or  they  will  turn  against  you. 
Forli  has  never  supported  an  oppressor,  and  if  you 
oppress  them,  beware  of  their  wrath.  What  do 
you  think  of  these  soldiers  of  yours  against  the  wrath 
of  a  people !  And  are  you  so  sure  of  your  soldiers  ? 
Will  they  take  part  for  you  against  their  fathers  and 
brothers,  their  children  ?  " 

"  Be  quiet !  "  Girolamo  had  risen  from  his  seat, 
and  was  standing  with  his  arm  threateningly  upraised. 
He  shouted  so  as  to  drown  Checco.  "  Be  quiet ! 
You  have  always  been  against  me,  Checco,'*  he 
cried.  "You  have  hated  me  because  I  have  over- 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  8 1 

whelmed  you  with  bounty.  There  has  never  been 
trouble  between  me  and  my  people  but  you  have 
come  to  make  them  more  bitter  against  me." 

"You  lie!'*  said  Checco,  passionately. 

"  Oh,  I  know  you,  Checco,  and  your  pride !  As 
Satan  fell  by  pride,  so  may  you,  notwithstanding  all 
your  riches  and  power.  You  thought  you  were  my 
equal,  and  because  you  found  me  your  master  you 
gnashed  your  teeth  and  cursed  me/' 

"  By  God,  you  would  kill  me  if  you  could !  " 

Checco  lost  his  calm,  and,  gesticulating  wildly, 
shouted  back  at  Girolamo  : 

"  I  have  hated  you  because  you  are  a  tyrant  to 
this  town.  Are  these  not  my  fellow  citizens,  my 
brothers,  my  friends  ?  Have  we  not  been  together 
since  childhood,  and  our  fathers  and  grandfathers 
before  us  ?  And  do  you  think  I  look  upon  them  as 
you  who  are  a  stranger  ? 

"  No ;  so  long  as  you  obtained  money  from  the 
rich,  I  said  nothing.  You  know  what  sums  I  have 
myself  lent  you ;  all  that  I  freely  give  you.  I  do  not 
want  a  penny  of  it  back,  —  keep  it  all.  But  when 
you  have  extorted  the  uttermost  from  us,  and  you 
turn  to  the  poor  and  needy,  and  rob  them  of  their 
little,  then  I  will  not  keep  silence.  You  shall  not 
impose  these  taxes  on  the  people !  And  why  is  it 
you  want  them  ?  For  your  riotous,  insane  extrava- 
gance ;  so  that  you  may  build  yourself  new  palaces, 


82  THE  MAKING  ^  OF  A   SAINT. 

and  deck  yourself  in  gorgeous  robes,  and  buy  dia- 
monds and  precious  stones  for  your  wife." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  my  wife,"  interrupted  the  count. 

"  So  that  you  may  pile  gold  in  the  hands  of  the 
parasite  who  makes  a  sonnet  in  your  praise.  You 
came  to  us  and  begged  for  money ;  we  gave  it,  and 
you  flung  it  away  in  feasts  and  riotry.  The  very 
coat  you  wear  was  made  out  of  our  riches.  But  you 
have  no  right  to  take  the  money  of  the  people  for 
these  ignoble  uses.  You  are  not  their  master ;  you 
are  their  servant ;  their  money  is  not  yours,  but 
yours  is  theirs.  Your  duty  before  God  is  to  protect 
them,  and,  instead,  you  rob  them." 

"  Be  silent !  "  broke  in  Girolamo.  "  I  will  hear  no 
more.  You  have  outraged  me  as  no  man  has  ever 
done  without  repenting  it.  You  think  you  are  all- 
powerful,  Checco,  but  by  God  you  shall  find  that  I 
am  more  powerful ! 

"  Now  go,  all  of  you  !  I  have  had  enough  of  this 
scene.  Go ! " 

He  waved  his  hand  imperiously.  Then,  with  a 
look  of  intense  rage,  he  descended  from  his  throne 
and,  scowling,  flung  himself  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE  courtiers  followed  on  their  master's  heels, 
but  the  soldiers  stood  undecided.  Ercole  Piacentini 
looked  at  us,  and  spoke  in  an  undertone  to  the  cap- 
tain of  the  guard.  I  thought  they  were  discussing 
the  possibility  of  boldly  arresting  Checco  on  the  spot, 
which  they  doubtless  knew  would  be  a  step  very  ac- 
ceptable to  Girolamo ;  but  he  was  surrounded  by  his 
friends,  and  evidently,  whatever  Ercole  and  the  cap- 
tain wished,  they  dared  nothing,  for  the  former 
quietly  left  the  chamber,  and  the  soldiers,  on  a  whis- 
pered order,  slid  silently  from  the  room,  like  whipped 
dogs. 

Then  the  excitement  of  our  friends  knew  no 
bounds.  I,  at  the  end  of  the  speech,  had  seized 
his  hand,  and  said : 

-Well  done." 

Now  he  was  standing  in  the  midst  of  all  these 
people,  happy  and  smiling,  proud  of  the  enthusiasm 
he  had  aroused,  breathing  heavily,  so  that  a  casual 
observer  might  have  thought  him  drunk  with  wine. 

"  My  friends,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  their  praises, 
83 


84  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

and  his  voice  slightly  trembled,  so  that  his  sincerity 
was  conspicuous,  "  whatever  happens,  be  sure  that 
I  will  continue  to  uphold  your  rights,  and  that  I  will 
willingly  give  my  life  for  the  cause  of  justice  and 
freedom." 

He  was  choked  by  the  violence  of  his  emotion,  and 
could  say  nothing  more. 

The  cries  of  approbation  were  renewed,  and  then, 
with  an  impulse  to  get  into  the  open  air,  they  surged 
out  of  the  council-chamber  into  the  piazza.  It  was 
not  exactly  known  what  had  passed  in  the  Palace, 
but  the  people  knew  that  Checco  had  braved  the 
count,  and  that  the  latter  had  broken  up  the  meet- 
ing in  anger.  Wonderful  rumours  were  going  about : 
it  was  said  that  swords  had  been  drawn,  and  there 
had  almost  been  a  battle ;  others  said  that  the  count 
had  tried  to  arrest  Checco,  and  this  story,  gaining 
credence,  —  some  even  saying  that  Checco  was  being 
kept  a  prisoner,  —  had  worked  the  citizens  to  fever 
height. 

When  Checco  appeared,  there  was  a  great  shout, 
and  a  rush  towards  him.  "  Bravo  !  "  "  Well  done  !  " 
I  don't  know  what  they  did  not  find  to  say  in  praise 
of  him.  Their  enthusiasm  grew  by  its  own  fire ; 
they  went  mad  ;  they  could  not  contain  themselves, 
and  they  looked  about  for  something  on  which  to 
vent  their  feeling.  A  word,  and  they  would  have 
attacked  the  Palace  or  sacked  the  custom  -  house. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  85 

They  surrounded  us,  and  would  not  let  us  pass. 
Bartolomeo  Moratini  pushed  his  way  to  Checco  and 
said  : 

"  Quiet  them  quickly,  before  it  is  too  late." 

Checco  understood  at  once.  "  Friends,"  he  said, 
"  let  me  pass  quietly,  for  the  love  of  God,  and  do  you 
return  to  your  work  in  peace.  Let  me  pass  !  " 

Moving  forward,  the  crowd  opened  to  him,  and 
still  shouting,  yelling,  and  gesticulating,  allowed  him 
to  go  through.  When  we  arrived  at  the  gate  of  his 
palace,  he  turned  to  me  and  said : 

"  By  God,  Filippo,  this  is  life !  I  shall  never  for- 
get this  day ! " 

The  crowd  had  followed  to  the  door,  and  would 
not  go  away.  Checco  had  to  appear  on  the  balcony 
and  bow  his  thanks.  As  he  stood  there,  I  could  see 
that  his  head  was  whirling.  He  was  pale,  almost 
senseless,  with  his  great  joy. 

At  last  the  people  were  persuaded  to  depart,  and 
we  entered  the  house. 

We  were  in  Checco's  private  room.  Besides  the 
cousins  and  myself  were  present  Bartolomeo  Mora- 
tini and  his  two  sons,  Fabio  Oliva  and  Cesare 
Gnocchi,  both  related  on  the  mother's  side  to  the 
Orsi.  We  were  all  restless  and  excited,  discussing 
the  events  that  had  occurred ;  only  Bartolomeo  was 
quiet  and  grave.  Matteo,  in  the  highest  of  spirits, 
turned  to  him. 


86  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"Why  so  silent,  Messer  Bartolomeo?"  he  said. 
"  You  are  like  the  skeleton  at  the  banquet. " 

"  It  is  a  matter  for  gravity/*  he  answered. 

"Why?" 

"  Why !  Good  God,  man,  do  you  suppose  nothing 
has  happened ! " 

We  stopped  talking  and  stood  around  him,  as  if 
suddenly  awakened. 

"  Our  ships  are  burnt  behind  us,"  he  proceeded, 
" and  we  must  advance,  —  must!  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Checco. 

"Do  you  suppose  Girolamo  is  going  to  allow 
things  to  go  on  as  before  ?  You  must  be  mad, 
Checco!" 

"I  believe  I  am,"  was  the  answer.  "All  this  -has 
turned  my  head.  Go  on." 

"Girolamo  has  only  one  step  open  to  him  now. 
You  have  braved  him  publicly;  you  have  crossed 
the  streets  in  triumph,  amid  the  acclamation  of  the 
people,  and  they  have  accompanied  you  to  your 
house  with  shouts  of  joy.  Girolamo  sees  in  you 
a  rival,  —  and  from  a  rival  there  is  only  one  safe- 
guard." 

"  And  that  —  ? "  asked  Checco. 

"  Is  death  !  " 

We  were  all  silent  for  a  moment ;  then  Bartolomeo 
spoke  again. 

"  He  cannot  allow  you  to  live.    He  has  threatened 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  87 

you  before,  but  now  he  must  carry  his  threats  into 
effect.  Take  care  !  " 

"I  know,"  said  Checco,  "the  sword  is  hanging 
over  my  head.  But  he  dare  not  arrest  me/' 

"  Perhaps  he  will  try  assassination.  You  must  go 
out  well  guarded." 

"I  do,"  said  Checco,  "and  I  wear  a  coat  of  mail. 
The  fear  of  assassination  has  been  haunting  me  for 
weeks.  O  God,  it  is  terrible !  I  could  bear  an 
open  foe.  I  have  courage  as  much  as  any  one ; 
but  this  perpetual  suspense  !  I  swear  to  you  it  is 
making  me  a  coward.  I  cannot  turn  the  corner 
of  a  street  without  thinking  that  my  death  may 
be  on  the  other  side ;  I  cannot  go  through  a  dark 
corridor  at  night  without  thinking  that  over  there 
in  the  darkness  my  murderer  may  be  waiting  for 
me.  I  start  at  the  slightest  sound,  the  banging 
of  a  door,  a  sudden  step.  And  I  awake  in  the 
night  with  a  cry,  sweating.  I  cannot  stand  it.  I 
shall  go  mad  if  it  continues.  What  can  I  do  ? " 

Matteo  and  I  looked  at  one  another ;  we  had  the 
same  thought.  Bartolomeo  spoke. 

"Anticipate  him ! " 

We  both  started,  for  they  were  my  very  words. 
Checco  gave  a  cry. 

"  You,  too !  That  thought  has  been  with  me 
night  and  day  !  Anticipate  him  !  Kill  him  !  But 
I  dare  not  think  of  it.  I  cannot  kill  him." 


88  THE  MAKING  OF  A  SAINT. 

"You  must,"  said  Bartolomeo. 

"Take  care  we  are  not  heard/'  said  Oliva. 

"The  doors  are  well  fastened." 

"You  must,"  repeated  Bartolomeo.  "It  is  the 
only  course  left  you.  And  what  is  more,  you  must 
make  haste,  —  for  he  will  not  delay.  The  lives  of 
all  of  us  are  at  stake.  He  will  not  be  satisfied  with 
you  ;  after  you  are  gone,  he  will  easily  enough  find 
means  to  get  rid  of  us." 

"  Hold  your  peace,  Bartolomeo,  for  God's  sake ! 
It  is  treachery." 

"  Of  what  are  you  frightened  ?  It  would  not  be 
difficult." 

"  No,  we  must  have  no  assassination !  It  always 
turns  out  badly.  The  Pazzi  in  Florence  were  killed, 
Salviati  was  hanged  from  the  Palace  windows,  and 
Lorenzo  is  all-powerful,  while  the  bones  of  the  con- 
spirators rot  in  unconsecrated  ground.  And  at  Milan, 
when  they  killed  the  duke,  not  one  of  them  escaped." 

"  They  were  fools.  We  do  not  mistake  as  in 
Florence ;  we  have /  the  people  with  us,  and  we 
shall  not  bungle  it  as  they  did." 

"  No,  no  ;  it  cannot  be." 

"  I  tell  you  it  must.     It  is  our  only  safety !  " 

Checco  looked  around  anxiously. 

"We  are  all  safe,"  said  Oliva.     "  Have  no  fear." 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  asked  Checco.  "I 
know  what  you  think,  Filippo,  and  Matteo." 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  89 

"  I  think  with  my  father  !  "  said  Scipione. 

"  I,  too  !  "  said  his  brother. 

"And  I!" 

"And  I!" 

"Every  one  of  you,"  said  Checco;  "you  would 
have  me  murder  him." 

"It  is  just  and  lawful." 

"  Remember  that  he  was  my  friend.  I  helped 
him  to  this  power.  Once  we  were  almost  brothers." 

"  But  now  he  is  your  deadly  enemy.  He  is 
sharpening  a  knife  for  your  head,  —  and  if  you  do 
not  kill  him,  he  will  kill  you." 

"  It  is  treachery.     I  cannot !  " 

"When  a  man  has  killed  another,  the  law  kills 
him.  It  is  a  just  revenge.  When  a  man  attempts 
another's  life,  the  law  permits  him  to  kill  that  man 
in  self-defence.  Girolamo  has  killed  you  in  thought, 
—  and  at  this  moment  he  may  be  arranging  the 
details  of  your  murder.  It  is  just  and  lawful  that 
you  take  his  life  to  defend  your  own  and  ours." 

"  Bartolomeo  is  right,"  said  Matteo. 

A  murmur  of  approval  showed  what  the  others 
thought. 

"  But  think,  Bartolomeo,"  said  Checco,  "  you  are 
gray-headed;  you  are  not  so  very  far  from  the 
tomb ;  if  you  killed  this  man,  what  of  afterwards  ? " 

"I  swear  to  you,  Checco,  that  you  would  be  a 
minister  of  God's  vengeance.  Has  he  not  madly 


90  THE  MAKING"  OF  A   SAINT. 

oppressed  the  people  ?  What  right  has  he  more 
than  another?  Through  him  men  and  women  and 
children  have  died  of  want ;  unhappiness  and  misery 
have  gone  through  the  land,  —  and  all  the  while  he 
has  been  eating  and  drinking  and  making  merry." 

"  Make  up  your  mind,  Checco.  You  must  give 
way  to  us  !  "  said  Matteo.  "  Girolamo  has  failed  in 
every  way.  On  the  score  of  honesty  and  justice  he 
must  die.  And  to  save  us  he  must  die." 

" You  drive  me  mad,"  said  Checco.  "All  of  you 
are  against  me.  You  are  right  in  all  you  say,  but  I 
cannot,  —  O  God,  I  cannot !  " 

Bartolomeo  was  going  to  speak  again,  but  Checco 
interrupted  him. 

"  No,  no,  for  Heaven's  sake,  say  nothing  more. 
Leave  me  alone.  I  want  to  be  quiet  and  think." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

IN  the  evening  at  ten  I  went  to  the  Palazzo  Aste. 
The  servant  who  let  me  in  told  me  that  Donna  Giulia 
was  at  her  father's,  and  he  did  not  know  when  she 
would  be  back.  I  was  intensely  disappointed.  I  had 
been  looking  forward  all  day  to  seeing  her,  for  the 
time  in  church  had  been  so  short.  .  .  .  The  servant 
looked  at  me  as  if  expecting  me  to  go  away,  and 
I  hesitated ;  but  then  I  had  such  a  desire  to  see  her 
that  I  told  him  I  would  wait. 

I  was  shown  into  the  room  I  already  knew  so  well, 
and  I  sat  down  in  Giulia's  chair.  I  rested  my  head 
on  the  cushions  which  had  pressed  against  her  beau- 
tiful hair,  her  cheek,  and  I  inhaled  the  fragrance 
which  they  had  left  behind  them. 

How  long  she  was  !     Why  did  she  not  come  ? 

I  thought  of  her  sitting  there.  In  my  mind  I  saw 
the  beautiful,  soft  brown  eyes,  the  red  lips;  her 
mouth  was  exquisite,  very  delicately  shaped,  with 
wonderful  curves.  It  was  for  such  a  mouth  as  hers 
that  the  simile  of  Cupid's  bow  had  been  invented. 

I  heard  a  noise  below,  and  I  went  to  the  door  to 
91 


92  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

listen.  My  heart  beat  violently,  but,  alas !  it  was 
not  she,  and,  bitterly  disappointed,  I  returned  to 
the  chair.  I  thought  I  had  been  waiting  hours, 
and  every  hour  seemed  a  day.  Would  she  never 
come  ? 

At  last !  The  door  opened,  and  she  came  in,  —  so 
beautiful.  She  gave  me  both  her  hands. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  have  had  to  wait,"  she  said,  "but 
I  could  not  help  it." 

"  I  would  wait  a  hundred  years  to  see  you  for  an 
hour." 

She  sat  down,  and  I  lay  at  her  feet. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "all  that  has  happened 
to-day." 

I  did  as  she  asked ;  and  as  I  gave  my  story,  her 
eyes  sparkled  and  her  cheeks  flushed.  I  don't  know 
what  came  over  me ;  I  felt  a  sensation  of  swooning, 
and  at  the  same  time  I  caught  for  breath.  And  I 
had  a  sudden  impulse  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and 
kiss  her  again  and  again. 

"  How  lovely  you  are !  "  I  said,  raising  myself  to 
her  side. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  looked  at  me,  smiling. 
Her  eyes  glistened  with  tears,  her  bosom  heaved. 

"  Giulia !  " 

I  put  my  arm  around  her,  and  took  her  hands  in 
mine. 

"  Giulia,  I  love  you !  " 


THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  93 

She  bent  over  to  me,  and  put  forward  her  face ; 
and  then  —  then  I  took  her  in  my  arms,  and  covered 
her  mouth  with  kisses.  O  God  !  I  was  mad,  I  had 
never  tasted  such  happiness  before.  Her  beauti- 
ful mouth,  it  was  so  soft,  so  small,  I  gasped  in  the 
agony  of  my  happiness,  If  I  could  only  have  died 
then! 

Giulia !    Giulia ! 

The  cock  crew,  and  the  night  seemed  to  fade  away 
into  grayness.  The  first  light  of  dawn  broke  through 
the  windows,  and  I  pressed  my  love  to  my  heart  in 
one  last  kiss. 

"  Not  yet,"    she  said  ;  "  I  love  you." 

I  could  not  speak  ;  I  kissed  her  eyes,  her  cheeks, 
her  breasts. 

"Don't  go,"  she  said. 

"  My  love  !  " 

At  last  I  tore  myself  away,  and  as  I  gave  her  the 
last  kiss  of  all,  she  whispered : 

"  Come  soon." 

And  I  replied : 

"To-night!" 

I  walked  through  the  gray  streets  of  Forli,  won- 
dering at  my  happiness ;  it  was  too  great  to  realise. 
It  seemed  absurd  that  I,  a  poor,  commonplace  man, 
should  be  chosen  out  for  this  ecstasy  of  bliss.  I  had 
been  buffeted  about  the  world,  an  exile,  wandering 


94  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

here  and  there  in  search  of  a  captain  under  whom  to 
serve.  I  had  had  loves  before,  but  common,  gro- 
tesque things,  —  not  like  this,  pure  and  heavenly. 
With  my  other  loves  I  had  often  felt  a  certain  ugli- 
ness about  them ;  they  had  seemed  sordid  and 
vulgar ;  but  this  was  so  pure,  so  clean !  She  was 
so  saintly  and  innocent.  Oh,  it  was  good !  And 
I  laughed  at  myself  for  thinking  I  was  not  in  love 
with  her.  I  had  loved  her  always ;  when  it  began 
I  did  not  know  .  .  .  and  I  did  not  care ;  all  that 
interested  me  now  was  to  think  of  myself,  loving 
and  beloved.  I  was  not  worthy  of  her ;  she  was  so 
good,  so  kind,  and  I  a  poor,  mean  wretch.  I  felt 
her  a  goddess,  and  I  could  have  knelt  down  and 
worshipped  her. 

I  walked  through  the  streets  of  Forli  with  swing- 
ing steps ;  I  breathed  in  the  morning  air,  and  felt  so 
strong,  and  well,  and  young.  Everything  was  beau- 
tiful, —  all  life.  The  gray  walls  enchanted  me  ;  the 
sombre  carvings  of  the  churches  ;  the  market  women, 
gaily  dressed,  entering  the  town  laden  with  baskets 
of  many-coloured  fruit.  They  gave  me  greeting,  and 
I  answered,  with  a  laughing  heart.  How  kind  they 
were  !  Indeed,  my  heart  was  so  full  of  love  that  it 
welled  over  and  covered  everything  and  everybody, 
so  that  I  felt  a  strange,  hearty  kindness  to  all  around 
me.  I  loved  mankind  ! 


CHAPTER   X. 

WHEN  I  got  home,  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed  and 
enjoyed  a  delightful  sleep,  and  when  I  awoke  felt 
cool  and  fresh,  and  very  happy. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  ? "  asked  Matteo. 

"I  am  rather  contented  with  myself,"  I  said. 

"Then,  if  you  want  to  make  other  people  con- 
tented, you  had  better  come  with  me  to  Donna 
Claudia." 

"The  beautiful  Claudia?" 

"The  same." 

"  But  can  we  venture  in  the  enemy's  camp  ? " 

"  That  is  exactly  why  I  want  you  to  come.  The 
idea  is  to  take  no  notice  of  the  events  of  yesterday, 
and  that  we  should  all  go  about  as  if  nothing  had 
happened." 

"But  Messer  Piacentini  will  not  be  very  glad  to 
see  us. " 

"  He  will  be  grinding  his  teeth,  and  inwardly  spit- 
ting fire  ;  but  he  will  take  us  to  his  arms  and  em- 
brace us,  and  try  to  make  us  believe  he  loves  us  with 
the  most  Christian  affection." 

95 


g6  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Very  well ;   come  on  !  " 

Donna  Claudia,  at  all  events,  was  delighted  to  see 
us,  and  she  began  making  eyes  and  sighing,  and 
putting  her  hand  to  her  bosom  in  the  most  affecting 
manner. 

"  Why  have  you  not  been  to  see  me,  Messer 
Filippo?"  she  asked. 

"  Indeed,  madam,  I  was  afraid  of  being  intrusive." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  with  a  sweeping  glance,  "how 
could  you  be !  No,  there  was  another  reason  for 
your  absence.  Alas  !  " 

"I  dared  not  face  those  lustrous  eyes." 

She  turned  them  full  on  me,  and  then  turned  them 
up,  Madonna-wise,  showing  the  whites. 

"  Are  they  so  cruel,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"They  are  too  brilliant.  How  dangerous  to  the 
moth  is  the  candle ;  and  in  this  case  the  candle  is 
twain/' 

"  But  they  say  the  moth  as  it  flutters  in  the  flame 
enjoys  a  perfection  of  ecstasy." 

"  Ah,  but  I  am  a  very  sensible  moth,"  I  answered, 
in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  "  and  I  am  afraid  of  burning 
my  wings." 

"  How  prosaic  !  "  she  murmured. 

"  The  muse,"  I  said,  politely,  "  loses  her  force 
when  you  are  present." 

She  evidently  did  not  quite  understand  what  I 
meant,  for  there  was  a  look  of  slight  bewilderment 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  97 

in  her  eyes ;  and  I  was  not  surprised,  for  I  had  not 
myself  the  faintest  notion  of  my  meaning.  Still  she 
saw  it  was  a  compliment. 

"  Ah,  you  are  very  polite !  " 

We  paused  a  moment,  during  which  we  both 
looked  unutterable  things  at  one  another.  Then 
she  gave  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Why  so  sad,  sweet  lady  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Messer  Filippo,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  an  un- 
happy woman."  She  hit  her  breast  with  her  hand. 

"  You  are  too  beautiful,"  I  remarked,  gallantly. 

"  Ah,  no  !  ah,  no  !  I  am  unhappy." 

I  glanced  at  her  husband,  who  was  stalking  grimly 
about  the  room,  looking  like  a  retired  soldier  with 
the  gout  ;  and  I  thought  that  to  be  in  the  society  of 
such  a  person  was  enough  to  make  any  one  miserable. 

"You  are  right,"  she  said,  following  my  eyes  ;  "it 
is  my  husband.  He  is  so  unsympathetic." 

I  condoled  with  her. 

"  He  is  so  jealous  of  me,  and,  as  you  know,  I  am 
a  pattern  of  virtue  to  Forli ! " 

I  had  never  heard  her  character  so  described,  but, 
of  course,  I  said : 

"  To  look  at  you  would  be  enough  to  reassure  the 
most  violent  of  husbands." 

"  Oh,  I  have  temptation  enough,  I  assure  you," 
she  answered,  quickly. 

"  I  can  well  believe  that." 


gS  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"  But  I  am  as  faithful  to  him  as  if  I  were  old  and 
ugly  ;  and  yet  he  is  jealous." 

"We  all  have  our  crosses  in  this  life,"  I  remarked, 
sententiously. 

"  Heaven  knows  I  have  mine ;  but  I  have  my 
consolations." 

So  I  supposed,  and  answered  : 

-  Oh  !  " 

"  I  pour  out  my  soul  in  a  series  of  sonnets." 

"A  second  Petrarch!" 

"  My  friends  say  some  of  them  are  not  unworthy 
of  that  great  name." 

"  I  can  well  believe  it." 

Here  relief  came,  and,  like  the  tired  sentinel,  I  left 
the  post  of  duty.  I  thought  of  my  sweet  Giulia,  and 
wondered  at  her  beauty  and  charm  ;  it  was  all  so 
much  clearer  and  cleaner  than  the  dross  I  saw 
around  me.  I  came  away,  for  I  was  pining  for 
solitude,  and  then  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  exquisite 
dreams  of  my  love. 

At  last  the  time  came,  the  long  day  had  at  last 
worn  away,  and  the  night,  the  friend  of  lovers,  gave 
me  leave  to  go  to  Giulia. 


CHAPTER  XL 

I  WAS  so  happy.  The  world  went  on ;  things 
happened  in  Forli,  the  rival  parties  agitated  and 
met  together  and  discussed ;  there  was  a  general 
ferment,  —  and  to  it  all  I  was  profoundly  indiffer- 
ent. What  matter,  all  the  petty  little  affairs  of  life  ? 
I  said.  People  work  and  struggle,  plot,  scheme, 
make  money,  lose  it,  conspire  for  place  and  honour; 
they  have  their  ambitions  and  hopes ;  but  what  is 
it  all,  beside  love?  I  had  entered  into  the  excite- 
ment of  politics  in  Forli ;  I  was  behind  the  veil 
and  knew  the  intricacies,  the  ambitions,  the  moving 
emotions  of  the  actors ;  but  now  I  withdrew  myself. 
What  did  I  care  about  the  prospects  of  Forli,  whether 
taxes  were  put  on  or  taken  off,  or  whether  A  killed 
B,  or  B  killed  A,  it  really  seemed  so  unimportant. 
I  looked  upon  them  as  puppets  performing  on  a 
stage,  and  I  could  not  treat  their  acts  with  serious- 
ness. Giulia !  That  was  the  great  fact  in  life. 
Nothing  mattered  to  me  but  Giulia.  When  I 
thought  of  Giulia  my  heart  was  filled  with  ecstasy, 
and  I  spat  with  scorn  on  all  the  silly  details  of  events. 

99 


IOO  THE   MAKING"  OF  A   SAINT. 

I  would  willingly  have  kept  myself  out  of  the 
stream  which  was  carrying  along  the  others ;  but 
I  could  not  help  knowing  what  happened.  And  it 
was  indeed  ridiculous.  After  the  great  scene  at  the 
Palace,  people  had  begun  to  take  steps  as  if  for  big 
events.  Checco  had  sent  a  large  sum  of  money  to 
Florence  for  the  Medici  to  take  care  of ;  Bartolomeo 
Moratini  had  made  preparations ;  there  was  gener- 
ally a  stir  and  unrest.  Girolamo  was  supposed  to 
be  going  to  take  some  step ;  people  were  prepared 
for  everything ;  when  they  woke  up  in  the  morning 
they  asked  if  aught  had  taken  place  in  the  night ; 
and  Checco  wore  a  coat  of  mail.  On  the  count's 
side,  people  were  asking  what  Checco  meant  to  do ; 
whether  the  ovation  he  had  received  would  en- 
courage him  to  any  violent  step.  All  the  world 
was  agog  for  great  events,  —  and  nothing  happened. 
It  reminded  me  of  a  mystery  play  in  which,  after 
great  preparation  of  dialogue,  some  great  stage 
effect  is  going  to  be  produced,  —  a  saint  is  going 
to  ascend  to  heaven,  or  a  mountain  is  to  open  and 
the  devil  spring  out.  The  spectators  are  sitting 
open-mouthed ;  the  moment  has  come,  everything 
is  ready,  the  signal  is  given  ;  the  mob  have  already 
drawn  their  breath  for  a  cry  of  astonishment,  —  and 
something  goes  wrong,  and  nothing  happens. 

The  good  Forlivesi  could  not  understand  it ;  they 
were  looking  for  signs  and  miracles,  and  behold ! 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  IOI 


they  came  not.  Each  day  they  said  to 
that  this  would  be  one  to  be  ren;iembere4  jn  .th.e 
history  of  the  town;  that  to-day  -  Giro!  tfrno  would 
surely  leave  his  hesitations  ;  but  the  day  wore  on 
quite  calmly.  Every  one  took  his  dinner  and  supper 
as  usual,  the  sun  journeyed  from  east  to  west  as  it 
had  done  on  the  previous  day,  the  night  came,  and 
the  worthy  citizen  went  to  his  bed  at  his  usual 
hour,  and  slept  in  peace  till  the  following  sunrise. 
Nothing  happened,  and  it  seemed  that  nothing  was 
going  to  happen.  The  troubled  spirits  gradually 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  nothing  to 
be  troubled  about,  and  the  old  quiet  came  over  the 
town  ;  there  was  no  talk  of  new  taxes,  and  the  world 
wagged  on.  ...  Checco  and  Matteo  and  the  Mora- 
tini  resigned  themselves  to  the  fact  that  the  sky  was 
serene,  and  that  they  had  better  pursue  their  way 
without  troubling  their  little  heads  about  conspira- 
cies and  midnight  daggers. 

Meanwhile,  I  laughed,  and  admired  their  folly  and 
my  own  wisdom.  For  I  worried  myself  about  none 
of  these  things  ;  I  lived  in  Giulia,  for  Giulia,  by 
Giulia.  ...  I  had  never  enjoyed  such  happiness 
before  ;  she  was  a  little  cold,  perhaps,  but  I  did  not 
mind.  I  had  passion  that  lived  by  its  own  flame, 
and  I  cared  for  nothing  as  long  as  she  let  me 
love  her.  And  I  argued  with  myself  that  it  is 
an  obvious  thing  that  love  is  not  the  same  on 


IO2  THE  MAKINd    OF  A   SAINT. 


both  vsidee.  *  .  There  is  always  one  who  loves  and 
one  who  lets  .himself  be  loved.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
special  decre'Q  of  nature  ;  for  the  man  loves  actively, 
caresses,  and  is  passionate  ;  while  the  woman  gives 
herself  to  him,  and  is  in  his  embrace  like  some 
sweet,  helpless  animal.  I  did  not  ask  for  such  love 
as  I  gave  ;  all  I  asked  was  that  my  love  should  let 
herself  be  loved.  That  was  all  I  cared  for  ;  that 
was  all  I  wanted.  My  love  for  Giulia  was  wonder- 
ful even  to  me.  I  felt  I  had  lost  myself  in  her. 
I  had  given  my  whole  being  into  her  hand.  Samson 
and  Delilah  !  But  this  was  no  faithless  Philistine. 
I  would  have  given  my  honour  into  her  keeping, 
and  felt  it  as  sure  as  in  my  own.  In  my  great  love  I 
felt  such  devotion,  such  reverence,  that  sometimes 
I  hardly  dared  touch  her  ;  it  seemed  to  me  I  must 
kneel  and  worship  at  her  feet.  I  learned  the  great 
delight  of  abasing  myself  to  the  beloved.  I  could 
make  myself  so  small  and  mean  in  my  humility  ;  but 
nothing  satisfied  my  wish  to  show  my  abject  slavery. 
.  .  .  O  Giulia  !  Giulia  ! 

But  this  inaction  on  the  part  of  Girolamo  Riario 
had  the  effect  of  persuading  his  subjects  of  his 
weakness.  They  had  given  over  expecting  reprisals 
on  his  part,  and  the  only  conclusion  they  could 
come  to  was  that  he  dared  do  nothing  against 
Checco.  It  was  inconceivable  that  he  should  leave 


THE   MAKING   OF  A    SAINT.  IO3 

unavenged  the  insults  he  had  received ;  that  he 
should  bear  without  remark  the  signs  of  popularity 
which  greeted  Checco,  not  only  on  the  day  of  the 
council  meeting,  but  since,  every  time  he  appeared 
in  the  streets.  They  began  to  despise  their  ruler 
as  well  as  hate  him,  and  they  told  one  another 
stories  of  violent  disputes  in  the  Palace  between  the 
count  and  Caterina.  Every  one  knew  the  pride  and 
passion  which  came  to  the  countess  with  her  Sforza 
blood,  and  they  felt  sure  that  she  would  not  patiently 
bear  the  insults  which  her  husband  did  not  seem 
to  mind  ;  for  the  fear  of  the  people  could  not  stop 
their  sarcasms,  and  when  any  member  of  the  house- 
hold was  seen  he  was  assailed  with  taunts  and  jeers ; 
Caterina  herself  had  to  listen  to  scornful  laughs  as 
she  passed  by,  and  the  town  was  ringing  with  a  song 
about  the  count.  It  was  whispered  that  Girolamo's 
little  son,  Ottaviano,  had  been  heard  singing  it,  in 
ignorance  of  its  meaning,  and  had  been  nearly  killed 
by  his  father  in  a  passion  of  rage.  Evil  reports  be- 
gan to  circulate  about  Caterina's  virtue ;  it  was  sup- 
posed that  she  would  not  keep  faithful  to  such  a 
husband,  and  another  song  was  made  in  praise  of 
cuckoldry. 

The  Orsi  would  not  be  persuaded  that  this  calm 
was  to  be  believed  in.  Checco  was  assured  that 
Girolamo  must  have  some  scheme  on  hand,  and  the 
quiet  and  silence  seemed  all  the  more  ominous. 


104  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

The  count  very  rarely  appeared  in  Forli ;  but  one 
Saint's  day  he  went  to  the  Cathedral,  and  as  he  came 
back  to  the  Palace,  passing  through  the  piazza,  saw 
Checco.  At  the  same  moment,  Checco  saw  him,  and 
stopped,  uncertain  what  to  do.  The  crowd  suddenly 
became  silent,  and  they  stood  still,  like  statues  petri- 
fied by  a  magic  spell.  What  was  going  to  happen  ? 
Girolamo  himself  hesitated  a  moment ;  a  curious 
spasm  crossed  his  face.  Checco  made  as  if  to  walk 
on,  pretending  not  to  notice  the  count.  Matteo  and 
I  were  dumbfounded,  absolutely  at  a  loss.  Then  the 
count  stepped  forward,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Ah,  my  Checco  !  how  goes  it  ?  " 

He  smiled,  and  pressed  warmly  the  hand  which  the 
Orsi  gave  him.  Checco  was  taken  aback,  pale  as  if 
the  hand  he  held  were  the  hand  of  death. 

"  You  have  neglected  me  of  late,  dear  friend,"  said 
the  count. 

"I  have  not  been  well,  my  lord." 

Girolamo  linked  his  arm  in  Checco's. 

"Come,  come,"  he  said,  "you  must  not  be  angry 
because  I  used  sharp  words  to  you  the  other  day. 
You  know  I  am  hot-tempered." 

"  You  have  a  right  to  say  what  you  please." 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  have  only  a  right  to  say  pleasant 
things." 

He  smiled,  but  all  the  time  the  mobile  eyes  were 
shifting  here  and  there,  scrutinising  Checco's  face, 


THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  1 05 

giving  occasional  quick  glances  to  me  and  Matteo. 
He  went  on : 

"You  must  show  a  forgiving  spirit."  Then,  to 
Matteo,  "  We  must  all  be  good  Christians  if  we  can, 
eh,  Matteo  ? " 

"Of  course!" 

"And  yet  your  cousin  bears  malice." 

"No,  my  lord,"  said  Checco.  "I  am  afraid  I  was 
too  outspoken." 

"  Well,  if  you  were,  I  have  forgiven  you,  and  you 
must  forgive  me.  But  we  will  not  talk  of  that.  My 
children  have  been  asking  for  you.  It  is  strange 
that  this  ferocious  creature,  who  tells  me  I  am  the 
worst  among  bad  men,  should  be  so  adored  by  my 
children.  Your  little  godson  is  always  crying  for  you." 

"  Dear  child  !  "  said  Checco. 

"  Come  and  see  them  now.  There  is  no  time  like 
the  present." 

Matteo  and  I  looked  at  one  another.  Was  all 
this  an  attempt  to  get  him  in  his  hand,  and  this 
time  not  to  let  him  go  ? 

"  I  must  pray  you  to  excuse  me,  for  I  have  some 
gentlemen  coming  to  dine  with  me  to-day,  and  I  fear 
I  shall  be  late  already." 

Girolamo  gave  us  a  rapid  look,  and  evidently,  saw 
in  our  eyes  something  of  our  thoughts,  for  he  said, 
good-humouredly : 

"  You  never  will  do  anything  for  me,  Checco.    But 


IO6  THE   MAKING^  OF  A    SAINT. 

I  won't  keep  you  ;  I  respect  the  duties  of  hospitality. 
However,  another  day  you  must  come." 

He  warmly  pressed  Checco's  hand,  and,  nodding  to 
Matteo  and  me,  left  us. 

The  crowd  had  not  been  able  to  hear  what  was 
said,  but  they  had  seen  the  cordiality,  and,  as  soon  as 
Girolamo  disappeared  behind  the  Palace  doors,  broke 
out  into  murmurs  of  derision.  The  Christian  senti- 
ment clearly  gained  little  belief  from  them,  and  they 
put  down  the  count's  act  to  fear.  It  was  clear,  they 
said,  that  he  found  Checco  too  strong  for  him,  and 
dared  nothing.  It  was  a  discovery  that  the  man 
they  had  so  feared  was  willing  to  turn  the  other 
cheek  when  the  one  was  smitten  ;  and  to  all  their 
former  hate  they  added  a  new  hate  that  he  had 
caused  them  terror  without  being  terrible.  They 
hated  him  now  for  their  own  pusillanimity.  The 
mocking  songs  gained  force,  and  Girolamo  began  to 
be  known  as  Cornuto,  the  Man  of  Horns. 

Borne  on  this  wave  of  contempt  came  another 
incident,  which  again  showed  the  count's  weakness. 
On  the  Sunday  following  his  meeting  with  Checco, 
it  was  known  that  Girolamo  meant  to  hear  mass  at 
the  Church  of  San  Stefano,  and  Jacopo  Ronchi,  com- 
mander of  a  troop,  stationed  himself,  with  two  other 
soldiers,  to  await  him.  When  the  count  appeared, 
accompanied  by  his  wife  and  children  and  his  suite, 
Jacopo  pressed  forward,  and,  throwing  himself  on  his 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  IO/ 

knees,  presented  a  petition,  in  which  he  asked  for  the 
arrears  of  pay  of  himself  and  his  fellows.  The  count 
took  it  without  speaking,  and  pursued  his  way.  Then 
Jacopo  took  hold  of  his  legs  to  stop  him,  and  said  : 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  my  lord,  give  me  a  hearing. 
I  and  these  others  have  received  nothing  for  months, 
and  we  are  starving." 

"  Let  me  go,"  said  the  count ;  "your  claim  shall  be 
attended  to." 

"  Do  not  dismiss  me,  my  lord.  I  have  presented 
three  petitions  before,  and  to  none  of  them  have  you 
paid  attention.  Now  I  am  getting  desperate,  and 
can  wait  no  longer.  Look  at  my  tattered  clothes. 
Give  me  my  money  !  " 

"  Let  me  go,  I  tell  you,"  said  Girolamo,  furiously, 
and  he  gave  him  a  sweeping  blow,  so  that  the  man 
fell  on  his  back  to  the  ground.  "  How  dare  you  come 
and  insult  me  here  in  the  public  place !  By  God ! 
I  cannot  keep  my  patience  much  longer." 

He  brought  out  these  words  with  such  violence  of 
passion  that  it  seemed  as  if  in  them  exploded  the 
anger  which  had  been  gathering  up  through  this 
time  of  humiliation.  Then,  turning  furiously  on  the 
people,  he  almost  screamed  : 

"  Make  way  !  " 

They  dared  not  face  his  anger,  and,  with  white 
faces,  shrunk  back,  leaving  a  path  for  him  and  his 
party  to  walk  through. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

I  LOOKED  at  these  events  as  I  might  have  looked 
at  a  comedy  of  Plautus  ;  it  was  very  amusing,  but  per- 
haps a  little  vulgar.  I  was  wrapped  up  in  my  own 
happiness,  and  I  had  forgotten  Nemesis. 

One  day,  perhaps  two  months  from  my  arrival  in 
Forli,  I  heard  Checco  tell  his  cousin  that  a  certain 
Giorgio  dall'  Aste  had  returned.  I  paid  no  particular 
attention  to  the  remark ;  but  later,  when  I  was  alone 
with  Matteo,  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  not  heard 
before  of  this  person.  I  did  not  know  that  Giulia  had 
relations  on  her  husband's  side.  I  asked  : 

"  By  the  way,  who  is  that  Giorgio  dall'  Aste,  of 
whom  Checco  was  speaking  ?  " 

"A  cousin  of  Donna  Giulia's  late  husband." 
"I  have  never  heard  him  spoken  of  before." 
"  Haven't  you  ?     He  enjoys  quite  a  peculiar  reputa- 
tion, as  being  the  only  lover  that  the  virtuous  Giulia 
has  kept  for  more  than  ten  days." 

"Another  of  your  old  wives'  tales,  Matteo!  Na- 
ture intended  you  for  a  begging  friar." 

108 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  IOQ 

"  I  have  often  thought  I  have  missed  my  vocation. 
With  my  brilliant  gift  for  telling  lies  in  a  truthful 
manner,  I  should  have  made  my  way  in  the  Church 
to  the  highest  dignities.  Whereas,  certain  antiquated 
notions  of  honour  having  been  instilled  into  me  dur- 
ing my  training  as  a  soldier,  my  gifts  are  lost ;  with 
the  result  that,  when  I  tell  the  truth,  people  think  I 
am  lying.  But  this  is  solemn  truth  !  " 

"  All  your  stories  are  !  "  I  jeered. 

"  Ask  any  one.  This  has  been  going  on  for  years. 
When  Giulia  was  married  by  old  Tomasso,  whom  she 
had  never  seen  in  her  life  before  the  betrothal,  the 
first  thing  she  did  was  to  fall  in  love  with  Giorgio. 
He  fell  in  love  with  her,  but,  being  a  fairly  honest 
sort  of  man,  he  had  some  scruples  about  committing 
adultery  with  his  cousin's  wife,  especially  as  he  lived 
on  his  cousin's  money.  However,  when  a  woman  is 
vicious,  a  man's  scruples  soon  go  to  the  devil.  If 
Adam  couldn't  refuse  the  apple,  you  can't  expect  us 
poor  fallen  creatures  to  do  so,  either.  The  result  was 
that  Joseph  did  not  run  away  from  Potiphar's  wife  so 
fast  as  to  prevent  her  from  catching  him." 

"  How  biblical  you  are  !  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Matteo  ;  "  I'm  making  love  to  a 
parson's  mistress,  and  I  am  cultivating  the  style 
which  I  find  she  is  used  to.  ...  But,  however, 
Giorgio,  being  youthful,  after  a  short  while  began  to 
have  prickings  of  conscience,  and  went  away  from 


I  10  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

Forli.  Giulia  was  heart-broken,  and  her  grief  was 
so  great  that  she  must  have  half  the  town  to  console 
her.  Then  Giorgio's  conscience  calmed  down,  and 
he  came  back,  and  Giulia  threw  over  all  her  lovers." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  single  word  you  say." 

"  On  my  honour,  it's  true." 

"  On  the  face  of  it,  the  story  is  false.  If  she 
really  loves  him,  why  do  they  not  keep  together  now 
that  there  is  no  hindrance  ? " 

"  Because  Giulia  has  the  heart  of  a  strumpet,  and 
can't  be  faithful  to  any  one  man.  She's  very  fond  of 
him,  but  they  quarrel,  and  she  takes  a  sudden  fancy 
for  somebody  else,  and  for  awhile  they  won't  see 
one  another.  But  there  seems  some  magical  charm 
between  them,  for  sooner  or  later  they  always  come 
back  to  one  another.  I  believe,  if  they  were  at  the 
ends  of  the  world,  eventually  they  would  be  drawn 
together,  even  if  they  struggled  with  all  their  might 
against  it.  And,  I  promise  you,  Giorgio  has  strug- 
gled ;  he  tries  to  part  with  her  for  good  and  all,  and 
each  time  they  separate  he  vows  it  shall  be  for  ever. 
But  there  is  an  invisible  chain,  and  it  always  brings 
him  back." 

I  stood  looking  at  him  in  silence.  Strange,  hor- 
rible thoughts  passed  through  my  head,  and  I  could 
not  drive  them  away.  I  tried  to  speak  quite  calmly. 

"  And  how  is  it  when  they  are  together  ?  " 

"  All  sunshine  and  storm,  but,  as  time  goes  on,  the 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  Ill 

storm  gets  longer  and  blacker;  and  then  Giorgio 
goes  away." 

"  But,  good  God !  man,  how  do  you  know  ? "  I 
cried,  in  agony. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  They  quarrel  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Furiously  !  He  feels  himself  imprisoned  against 
his  will,  with  the  door  open  to  escape,  but  not  the 
strength  to  do  it ;  and  she  is  angry  that  he  should 
love  her  thus,  trying  not  to  love  her.  It  rather 
seems  to  me  that  it  explains  her  own  excesses ;  her 
other  loves  are  partly  to  show  him  how  much  she  is 
loved,  and  to  persuade  herself  that  she  is  lovable. " 

I  did  not  believe  it.  Oh,  no,  I  swear  I  did  not  be- 
lieve it,  yet  I  was  frightened,  horribly  frightened ; 
but  I  would  not  believe  a  single  word  of  it. 

"Listen,  Matteo,"  I  said.  "You  believe  badly  of 
Giulia ;  but  you  do  not  know  her.  I  swear  to  you 
that  she  is  good  and  pure,  whatever  she  may  have 
been  in  the  past ;  and  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of 
these  scandals.  I  am  sure  that  now  she  is  as  true 
and  faithful  as  she  is  beautiful." 

Matteo  looked  at  me  for  a  moment. 

"  Are  you  her  lover  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes!" 

Matteo  opened  his  mouth  as  if  about  to  speak, 
then  stopped,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  turned 
away. 


112  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

That  evening  I  went  to  Giulia.  I  found  her  lying 
full  length  on  a  divan,  her  head  sunken  in  soft 
cushions.  She  was  immersed  in  reverie.  I  won- 
dered whether  she  were  thinking  of  me,  and  I  went 
up  to  her  silently,  and,  bending  over  her,  lightly 
kissed  her  lips.  She  gave  a  cry,  and  a  frown  dark- 
ened her  eyes. 

"You  frightened  me!" 

"  I  am  sorry/'  I  answered,  humbly.  '/  I  wanted  to 
surprise  you." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  raised  her  eyebrows, 
slightly  shrugging  her  shoulders.  I  wondered 
whether  something  had  arisen  to  vex  her.  I  knew 
she  had  a  quick  temper,  but  I  did  not  mind  it ;  a 
cross  word  was  so  soon  followed  by  a  look  of  repent- 
ance and  a  word  of  love.  I  passed  my  hand  over  her 
beautiful  soft  hair.  The  frown  came  again,  and  she 
turned  her  head  away. 

"  Giulia,"  I  said,  "  what  is  it  ? "  I  took  her  hand  ; 
she  withdrew  it  immediately. 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered. 

"Why  do  you  turn  away  from  me  and  withdraw 
your  hand  ? " 

"  Why  should  I  not  turn  away  from  you  and  with- 
draw my  hand  ? " 

"  Don't  you  love  me,  Giulia  ? " 

She  gave  a  sigh,  and  pretended  to  look  bored.  I 
looked  at  her,  pained  at  heart,  and  wondering. 


'YOU    NEED    HAVE    NO    FEAR    ABOUT    YOUR    CHARACTER,'    I 
ANSWERED,    BITTERLY." 


THE   MAKING    OP  A    SAINT.  113 

"Giulia,  my  dear,  tell  me  what  it  is.  You  are 
making  me  very  unhappy. " 

"  Oh,  don't  I  tell  you,  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  !  " 

"  Why  are  you  cross  ? " 

I  put  my  face  to  hers  and  my  arms  around  her 
neck.  She  disengaged  herself  impatiently. 

"  You  refuse  my  kisses,  Giulia !  " 

She  made  another  gesture  of  annoyance. 

"  Giulia,  don't  you  love  me  ?  "  My  heart  was  be- 
ginning to  sink,  and  I  remembered  what  I  had  heard 
from  Matteo.  Oh,  God  !  could  it  be  true  ?  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  love  you,  but  sometimes  I  must 
be  left  in  peace." 

"  You  have  only  to  say  the  word,  and  I  will  go 
away  altogether." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  do  that,  but  we  shall  like  one 
another  much  better,  if  we  don't  see  too  much  of 
one  another." 

"  When  one  is  in  love,  really  and  truly,  one  does 
not  think  of  such  wise  precautions." 

"  And  you  are  here  so  often  that  I  am  afraid  of 
my  good  name." 

"  You  need  have  no  fear  about  your  character,"  I 
answered,  bitterly.  "  One  more  scandal  will  not 
make  much  difference." 

"  You  need  not  insult  me  !  " 

I  could  not  be  angry  with  her,  I  loved  her  too 
much ;  and  the  words  I  had  said  hurt  me  ten  times 


114  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

more  than  they  hurt  her.  I  fell  on  my  knees  by  her 
side  and  took  hold  of  her  arms. 

"  Oh,  Giulia,  Giulia,  forgive  me  !  I  don't  mean  to 
say  anything  to  wound  you.  But,  for  God's  sake, 
don't  be  so  cold !  I  love  you,  I  love  you.  Be  good 
to  me." 

"  I  think  I  have  been  good  to  you.  .  .  .  After  all, 
it  is  not  such  a  very  grave  matter.  I  have  not  taken 
things  more  seriously  than  you." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  cried,  aghast. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  suppose  you  found  me  a  pretty  woman,  and 
thought  you  could  occupy  a  few  spare  moments  with 
a  pleasant  amour.  You  can  hardly  have  expected 
me  to  be  influenced  by  sentiments  very  different 
from  your  own." 

"  You  mean  you  do  not  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  love  you  as  much  as  you  love  me.  I  don't  sup- 
pose either  you  are  Lancelot,  or  I  Guinevere." 

I  still  knelt  at  her  side  in  silence,  and  my  head 
felt  as  if  the  vessels  in  it  were  bursting.  .  .  . 

"  You  know,"  she  went  on,  quite  calmly,  "  one  can- 
not love  for  ever." 

"  But  I  love  you,  Giulia ;  I  love  you  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul !  I  have  had  loves  picked  up  for  the 
opportunity's  sake,  or  for  pure  idleness  ;  but  my  love 
for  you  is  different.  I  swear  to  you  it  is  a  matter  of 
my  whole  life." 


THE    MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  I  I  $ 

"  That  has  been  said  to  me  so  often.  .  .  ." 

I  was  beginning  to  be  overwhelmed. 

"  But  do  you  mean  that  it  is  all  finished  ?  Do  you 
mean  that  you  won't  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
me  ?  " 

"I  don't  say  I  won't  have  anything  more  to  do 
with  you." 

"  But  love  ?     It  is  love  I  want/' 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  But  why  not  ? "  I  said,  despairingly.  "  Why  have 
you  given  it  me  at  all  if  you  want  to  take  it  away  ? " 

"  One  is  not  master  of  one's  love.  It  comes  and 
goes." 

"  Don't  you  love  me  at  all  ?  " 

"No!" 

"  O  God  !    But  why  do  you  tell  me  this  to-day  ? " 

"I  had  to  tell  you,  sometime." 

"  But  why  not  yesterday,  or  the  day  before  ?  Why 
to-day  particularly  ? " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Is  it  because  Giorgio  dall'  Aste  has  just  re- 
turned ? " 

She  started  up,  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  What  have  they  been  telling  you  about  him  ? " 

"  Has  he  been  here  to-day  ?  Were  you  thinking  of 
him  when  I  came  ?  Were  you  languorous  from  his 
embraces  ? " 

"  How  dare  you  ! " 


Il6  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"  The  only  lover  to  whom  you  have  been  faithful, 
more  or  less  !  " 

"  You  vowed  you  did  not  believe  the  scandals  about 
me,  and  now,  when  I  refuse  you  the  smallest  thing, 
you  are  ready  to  believe  every  word.  What  a  love 
is  this  !  I  thought  I  had  heard  you  talk  so  often  of 
boundless  confidence/' 

"  I  believe  every  word  I  have  heard  against  you. 
I  believe  you  are  a  harlot." 

She  had  raised  herself  from  her  couch,  and  we 
were  standing  face  to  face. 

"  Do  you  want  money  ?  Look  !  I  have  as  good 
money  as  another.  I  will  pay  you  for  your  love; 
here,  take  it." 

I  took  gold  pieces  from  my  pocket  and  flung  them 
at  her  feet. 

"Ah/*  she  cried,  in  indignation,  "you  cur!  Go, 
go!" 

She  pointed  to  the  door.  Then  I  felt  a  sudden 
revulsion.  I  fell  on  my  knees  and  seized  her 
hands. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  Giulia.  I  don't  know  what  I  am 
saying  ;  I  am  mad.  But  don't  rob  me  of  your  love ; 
it  is  the  only  thing  I  have  to  live  for.  For  God's 
sake,  forgive  me !  O  Giulia,  I  love  you,  I  love 
you !  I  can't  live  without  you."  The  tears  broke 
from  my  eyes.  I  could  not  stop  them. 

"  Leave  me  !  leave  me  !  " 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  I  I/ 

I  was  ashamed  of  my  abject  ness ;  I  rose  up, 
indignant. 

"  Oh,  you  are  quite  heartless.  You  have  no  right 
to  treat  me  so.  You  were  not  obliged  to  give  me 
your  love ;  but  when  once  you  have  given  it  you  can- 
not take  it  away.  No  one  has  the  right  to  make 
another  unhappy  as  you  make  me.  You  are  a  bad, 
evil  woman.  I  hate  you  !  " 

I  stood  over  her  with  clenched  fists.  She  shrank 
back,  afraid. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  I  said ;  "  I  won't  touch 
you.  I  hate  you  too  much." 

Then  I  turned  to  the  crucifix,  and  lifted  my  hands. 

"  O  God,  I  pray  you,  let  this  woman  be  treated 
as  she  has  treated  me."  And  to  her,  "  I  hope  to 
God  you  are  as  unhappy  as  I  am.  And  I  hope  the 
unhappiness  will  come  soon,  — you  harlot !  " 

I  left  her,  and  in  my  rage  slammed  the  door  so 
that  the  lock  shattered  behind  me. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

I  WALKED  through  the  streets  like  a  man  who  has 
received  sentence  of  death.  My  brain  was  whirling, 
and  sometimes  I  stopped  and  pressed  my  head  with 
both  hands  to  relieve  the  insupportable  pressure. 
I  could  not  realise  what  had  happened  ;  I  only  knew 
it  was  terrible.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  going  mad ;  I 
could  have  killed  myself.  At  last,  getting  home, 
I  threw  myself  on  my  bed,  and  tried  to  gather  my- 
self together.  I  cried  out  against  that  woman.  I 
wished  I  had  my  fingers  curling  around  her  soft  white 
throat,  that  I  could  strangle  the  life  out  of  her.  Oh, 
I  hated  her ! 

At  last  I  fell  asleep,  and  in  that  sweet  forgetful- 
ness  enjoyed  a  little  peace.  When  I  woke,  I  lay  still 
for  a  moment  without  remembering  what  had  hap- 
pened ;  then  suddenly  it  came  back  to  me,  and  the 
blood  flushed  to  my  face  as  I  thought  of  how  I  had 
humiliated  myself  to  her.  She  must  be  as  hard  as 
stone,  I  said  to  myself,  to  see  my  misery  and  not 
take  pity  on  me.  She  saw  my  tears  and  was  not 
moved  one  jot.  All  the  time  I  had  been  praying  and 

nS 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  1 19 

beseeching,  she  had  been  as  calm  as  a  marble  figure. 
She  must  have  seen  my  agony  and  the  passion 
of  my  love,  and  yet  she  was  absolutely,  absolutely, 
indifferent.  Oh,  I  despised  her !  I  had  known, 
even  when  I  adored  her  madly,  that  it  was  only 
my  love  which  gave  her  the  qualities  I  worshipped. 
I  had  seen  she  was  ignorant  and  foolish,  and  com- 
monplace and  vicious ;  but  I  did  not  care  as  long  as 
I  loved  her  and  could  have  her  love  in  return.  But 
when  I  thought  of  her  so  horribly  heartless,  so  uncar- 
ing to  my  unhappiness,  I  did  more  than  hate  her,  — 
I  utterly  despised  her.  I  despised  myself  for  hav- 
ing loved  her.  I  despised  myself  for  loving  her 
still.  .  .  . 

I  got  up  and  went  about  my  day's  duties,  trying 
to  forget  myself  in  their  performance.  But  still  I 
brooded  over  my  misery,  and  in  my  heart  I  cursed 
the  woman.  It  was  Nemesis,  always  Nemesis !  In 
my  folly  I  had  forgotten  her ;  and  yet  I  should  have 
remembered  that  through  my  life  all  happiness  had 
been  followed  by  all  misery.  ...  I  had  tried  to 
ward  off  the  evil  by  sacrifice  ;  I  had  rejoiced  at  the 
harm  which  befell  me,  but  the  very  rejoicing  seemed 
to  render  the  hurt  of  no  avail,  and,  with  the  inevita- 
bleness  of  fate,  Nemesis  had  come  and  thrown  me 
back  into  the  old  unhappiness.  But  of  late  I  had 
forgotten.  What  was  Nemesis  to  me  now,  when  I 
thought  my  happiness  so  great  that  it  could  not  help 


120  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

but  last  ?  It  was  so  robust  and  strong  that  I  never 
thought  of  its  cessation.  I  did  not  even  think  the 
gods  were  good  to  me  at  last.  I  had  forgotten  the 
gods ;  I  thought  of  nothing  but  love  and  Giulia. 

Matteo  came  asking  me  to  go  to  the  Palace  with 
him  and  Checco,  at  the  particular  desire  of  Girolamo, 
who  wished  to  show  them  the  progress  of  the  deco- 
rations. I  would  not  go.  I  wanted  to  be  alone  and 
think. 

But  my  thoughts  maddened  me.  Over  and  over 
again  I  repeated  every  word  of  the  terrible  quarrel, 
and  more  than  ever  I  was  filled  with  horror  for  her 
cold  cruelty.  What  right  have  these  people  to  make 
us  unhappy  ?  Is  there  not  enough  misery  in  the 
world  already  ?  Oh,  it  is  brutal ! 

I  could  not  bear  myself;  I  regretted  that  I  had 
not  gone  to  the  Palace.  I  detested  this  solitude. 

The  hours  passed  like  years,  and  as  my  brain 
grew  tired  I  sank  into  a  state  of  sodden,  passive 
misery. 

At  last  they  came  back,  and  Matteo  told  me  what 
had  happened.  I  tried  to  listen,  to  forget  myself. 
...  It  appeared  that  the  count  had  been  extremely 
cordial.  After  talking  to  them  of  his  house,  and 
showing  the  beautiful  things  he  had  collected  to 
furnish  it  with,  he  took  them  to  Caterina's  apart- 
ments, where  they  found  the  countess  surrounded 
by  her  children.  She  had  been  very  charming  and 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  121 

gracious,  even  deigning  to  compliment  Matteo  on 
his  gallantry.  How  it  interested  me  to  know  all 
this !  The  children  had  run  to  Checco  as  soon 
as  they  saw  him,  dragging  him  into  their  game. 
The  others  looked  on  while  the  Orsi  played  good- 
humouredly  with  the  little  boys,  and  Girolamo,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  Checco' s  shoulder,  had  remarked : 

"You  see,  dear  friend,  the  children  are  deter- 
mined that  there  should  not  be  enmity  between  us. 
And  when  the  little  ones  love  you  so  dearly,  can  you 
think  that  I  should  hate  you  ?  " 

And  when  they  left  he  had  accompanied  them  to 
the  gates  and  been  quite  affectionate  in  his  farewell. 

At  last  the  night  came,  and  I  could  shut  myself 
up  in  my  room.  I  thought,  with  a  bitter  smile,  that 
it  was  the  hour  at  which  I  was  used  to  go  to  Giulia. 
And  now  I  should  never  go  to  Giulia  again.  My 
unhappiness  was  too  great  for  wrath ;  I  felt  too 
utterly  miserable  to  think  of  my  grievances,  or  of 
my  contempt.  I  only  felt  broken-hearted.  I  could 
not  keep  the  tears  back,  and,  burying  my  face  in  the 
pillows,  I  cried  my  heart  out.  It  was  years  and 
years  since  I  had  wept,  not  since  I  was  quite  a  boy, 
but  this  blow  had  taken  from  me  all  manliness,  and 
I  gave  myself  over  to  my  grief,  passionately,  shame- 
lessly. I  did  not  care  that  I  was  weak ;  I  had  no 
respect  for  myself,  or  care  for  myself.  The  sobs 
came,  one  on  the  heels  of  another,  like  waves,  and 


122  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

the  pain,  as  they  tore  my  chest,  relieved  the  anguish 
of  my  mind.  Exhaustion  came  at  last,  and  with  it 
sleep. 

But  I  knew  I  could  not  hide  the  change  in  me, 
and  Matteo  soon  noticed  it. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Filippo  ? "  he 
asked.  I  blushed  and  hesitated. 

"  Nothing,"  I  answered,  at  last. 

"  I  thought  you  were  unhappy." 

Our  eyes  met,  but  I  could  not  stand  his  inquiring 
glance,  and  looked  down.  He  came  to  me,  and,  sit- 
ting on  the  arm  of  my  chair,  put  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder  and  said,  affectionately  : 

"  We're  friends,  aren't  we,  Filippo  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  smiling  and  taking  his  hand. 

"Won't  you  trust  me  ?" 

After  a  pause  I  answered  : 

"I  should  so  much  like  to."     I  felt  as  if  indeed  it. 
would  relieve  me  to  be  able  to  confide  in  somebody, 
I  wanted  sympathy  so  badly. 

He  passed  his  hand  gently  over  my  hair. 

I  hesitated  a  little,  but  I  could  not  help  myself, 
and  I  told  him  the  whole  story  from  beginning  to 
end. 

"  Poverino !  "  he  said,  when  I  had  finished ;  then, 
clenching  his  teeth,  "  She  is  a  beast,  that  woman !  " 

"  I  ought  to  have  taken  your  warning,  Matteo, 
but  I  was  a  fool," 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  123 

"Who  ever  does  take  warning?"  he  answered, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  How  could  you  be  ex- 
pected to  believe  me  ?  " 

"  But  I  believe  you  now.  I  am  horrified  when  I 
think  of  her  vice  and  cruelty/' 

"Ah,  well,  it  is  over  now." 

"  Quite  !  I  hate  her  and  despise  her.  Oh,  I  wish 
I  could  get  her  face  to  face  and  tell  her  what  I  think 
of  her." 

I  thought  my  talk  with  Matteo  had  relieved  me, 
I  thought  the  worst  was  over ;  but  at  night  melan- 
choly came  on  me  stronger  than  ever,  and  I  groaned 
as  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed.  I  felt  so  terribly 
alone  in  the  world.  ...  I  had  no  relation  but  a 
half-brother,  a  boy  of  twelve,  whom  I  had  hardly 
seen ;  and  as  I  wandered  through  the  land,  an  exile, 
I  had  been  continually  assailed  by  the  hateful  demon 
of  loneliness.  •  And  sometimes  in  my  solitude  I  had 
felt  that  I  could  kill  myself.  But  when  I  found  I 
was  in  love  with  Giulia,  I  cried  aloud  with  joy.  ... 
I  threw  everything  to  the  winds,  gathering  myself 
up  for  the  supreme  effort  of  passion.  All  the  storm 
and  stress  were  passed ;  I  was  no  longer  alone,  for 
I  had  some  one  to  whom  I  could  give  my  love.  I 
was  like  the  ship  that  arrives  in  the  harbour,  and 
reefs  her  sails  and  clears  her  deck,  settling  down  in 
the  quietness  of  the  waters. 

And  now  all  was  over!      O  God,  to  think  that 


124  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

my  hopes  should  be  shattered  in  so  short  a  time ! 
that  the  ship  should  be  so  soon  tossed  about  in  the 
storm,  and  the  stars  hidden  by  the  clouds  !  And  the 
past  delight  made  the  present  darkness  all  the  more 
bitter.  I  groaned.  In  my  misery  I  uttered  a  prayer 
to  God  to  help  me.  I  could  not  think  I  should  live 
henceforth.  How  could  I  go  on  existing,  with  this 
aching  void  in  my  heart  ?  I  could  not  spend  days 
and  weeks  and  years  always  with  this  despair.  It 
was  too  terrible  to  last.  My  reason  told  me  that 
time  would  remedy  it ;  but  time  was  so  long,  and 
what  misery  must  I  go  through  before  the  wound 
was  healed !  And  as  I  thought  of  what  I  had  lost, 
my  agony  grew  more  unbearable.  It  grew  vivid,  and 
I  felt  Giulia  in  my  arms.  I  panted  as  I  pressed  my 
lips  against  hers,  and  I  said  to  her  : 

"  How  could  you  !  " 

I  buried  my  face  in  my  hands,  so  as  better  to  enjoy 
my  dream.  I  smelt  the  perfume  of  her  breath  ;  I  felt 
on  my  face  the  light  touch  of  her  hair.  But  it  would 
not  last.  I  tried  to  seize  the  image  and  hold  it  back, 
but  it  vanished  and  left  me  broken-hearted.  .  .  . 

I  knew  I  did  not  hate  her.  I  had  pretended  to, 
but  the  words  came  from  the  mouth.  In  my  heart 
I  loved  her  still,  more  passionately  than  ever.  What 
did  I  care  if  she  were  heartless  and  cruel  and  faith- 
less and  vicious !  It  was  nothing  to  me  as  long  as 
I  could  hold  her  in  my  arms  and  cover  her  with 


TffE  MAKING   OF  A  SAINT.  1 25 

kisses.  I  did  despise  her ;  I  knew  her  for  what 
she  was,  but  still  I  loved  her  insanely.  Oh,  if  she 
would  only  come  back  to  me !  I  would  willingly 
forget  everything  and  forgive  her.  Nay,  I  would 
ask  her  forgiveness  and  grovel  before  her,  if  she 
would  only  let  me  enjoy  her  love  again. 

I  would  go  back  to  her  and  fall  on  my  knees,  and 
pray  her  to  be  merciful.  Why  should  I  suppose  she 
had  changed  in  the  few  days  ?  I  knew  she  would 
treat  me  with  the  same  indifference,  and  only  feel  a 
wondering  contempt  that  I  should  so  abase  myself. 
It  came  like  a  blow  in  the  face,  the  thought  of  her 
cold  cruelty  and  her  calmness.  No,  I  vowed  I  would 
never  subject  myself  to  that  again.  I  felt  myself 
blush  at  the  remembrance  of  the  humiliation.  But 
perhaps  she  was  sorry  for  what  she  had  done.  I 
knew  her  pride  would  prevent  her  from  coming  or 
sending  to  me,  and  should  I  give  her  no  opportunity  ? 
Perhaps,  if  we  saw  one  another  for  a  few  moments 
everything  might  be  arranged,  and  I  might  be  happy 
again.  An  immense  feeling  of  hope  filled  me.  I 
thought  I  must  be  right  in  my  idea ;  she  could  not 
be  so  heartless  as  to  have  no  regret.  How  willingly 
I  would  take  her  back !  My  heart  leaped.  But  I 
dared  not  go  to  her  house.  I  knew  I  should  find  her 
on  the  morrow  at  her  father's,  who  was  going  to  give 
a  banquet  to  some  friends.  I  would  speak  to  her 
there,  casually,  as  if  we  were  ordinary  acquaintances  ; 


126  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

and  then  at  the  first  sign  of  yielding  on  her  part, 
even  if  I  saw  but  a  tinge  of  regret  in  her  eyes,  I 
would  burst  out.  I  was  happy  in  my  plan,  and 
I  went  to  sleep  with  the  name  of  Giulia  on  my  lips 
and  her  image  in  my  heart. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

I  WENT  to  the  Moratini  Palace,  and  with  beating 
heart  looked  around  for  Giulia.  She  was  surrounded 
by  her  usual  court,  and  seemed  more  lively  and  ex- 
cited than  ever.  I  had  never  seen  her  more  beauti- 
ful. She  was  dressed  all  in  white,  and  her  sleeves 
were  sown  with  pearls  ;  she  looked  like  a  bride.  She 
caught  sight  of  me  at  once,  but  pretended  not  to  see 
me,  and  went  on  talking. 

I  approached  her  brother  Alessandro,  and  said  to 
him,  casually : 

"  I  am  told  a  cousin  of  your  sister  has  come  to 
Forli.  Is  he  here  to-day?  " 

He  looked  at  me  inquiringly,  not  immediately 
understanding.  . 

"  Giorgio  dall'  Aste,"  I  explained. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  you  meant  him.  No,  he's  not 
here.  He  and  Giulia's  husband  were  not  friends,  and 
so  —  " 

"  Why  were  they  not  friends  ?  "  I  interrupted,  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment,  not  seeing  the  impertinence 
of  the  question  till  I  had  made  it. 

127 


128  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Relations  always  are  at  en- 
mity with  one  another ;  probably  some  disagreement 
with  regard  to  their  estates." 

"  Was  that  all  ?  " 

"  So  far  as  I  know." 

I  recollected  that  in  a  scandal  the  persons  most 
interested  are  the  last  to  hear  it.  The  husband 
hears  nothing  of  his  wife's  treachery  till  all  the  town 
knows  every  detail. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him,"  I  went  on. 

"  Giorgio  ?  Oh,  he's  a  weak  sort  of  creature  ;  one 
of  those  men  who  commit  sins  and  repent !  " 

"  That  is  not  a  fault  of  which  you  will  ever  be 
guilty,  Alessandro,"  I  said,  smiling. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  not.  After  all,  if  a  man  has  a 
conscience  he  ought  not  to  do  wrong ;  but  if  he  does, 
he  must  be  a  very  poor  sort  of  a  fool  to  repent." 

"  You  cannot  have  the  rose  without  the  thorn." 

"  Why  not  ?  It  only  needs  care.  There  are  dregs 
at  the  bottom  of  every  cup,  but  you  are  not  obliged 
to  drink  them." 

"You  have  made  up  your  mind  that  if  you  com- 
mit sins  you  are  ready  to  go  to  hell  for  them  ? "  I 
said. 

"It  is  braver  than  going  to  heaven  by  the  back 
door,  turning  pious  when  you  are  too  old  to  do  any- 
thing you  shouldn't." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  that  one  has  little  respect  for 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  I2Q 

the  man  who  turns  monk  when  things  go  wrong  with 
him." 

I  saw  that  Giulia  was  alone,  and  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity to  speak  with  her. 

"  Giulia,"  I  said,  approaching. 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  with  an  air  of  per- 
plexity, as  if  she  really  could  not  remember  who  I 
was. 

"  Ah,  Messer  Filippo !  "  she  said,  as  if  suddenly 
recollecting. 

"  It  is  not  so  long  since  we  met  that  you  can  have 
forgotten  me." 

"  Yes ;  I  remember  the  last  time  you  did  me  the 
honour  to  visit  me  you  were  very  rude  and  cross." 

I  looked  at  her  silently,  wondering. 

"  Well  ? "  she  said,  steadily  answering  my  gaze, 
•and  smiling. 

"  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  to  me  than  that  ? " 
I  asked,  in  an  undertone. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  say  to  you  ? " 

"  Are  you  quite  heartless  ? " 

She  gave  a  sigh  of  boredom,  and  looked  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  as  if  for  some  one  to  come 
and  break  a  tedious  conversation. 

"  How  could  you  ? "   I  whispered. 

Notwithstanding  her  self-control,  a  faint  flush 
came  over  her  face.  I  stood  looking  at  her  for  a 
little  while,  and  then  I  turned  away.  She  was  quite 


130  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

heartless.  I  left  the  Moratini  and  walked  out  into 
the  town.  This  last  interview  had  helped  me,  in  so 
far  that  it  made  certain  that  my  love  was  hopeless. 
I  stood  still,  and  stamped  on  the  ground,  vowing  I 
would  not  love  her.  I  would  put  her  away  from  my 
thoughts  entirely ;  she  was  a  contemptible,  vicious 
woman,  and  I  was  too  proud  to  be  subject  to  her.  I 
wondered  I  did  not  kill  her.  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
take  my  courage  in  both  hands  and  leave  Forli. 
Once  away,  I  should  find  myself  attracted  to  differ- 
ent matters,  and  probably  I  should  not  live  long 
before  finding  some  other  woman  to  take  Giulia's 
place.  She  was  not  the  only  woman  in  Italy ;  she 
was  not  the  most  beautiful  nor  the  cleverest.  Give 
me  a  month,  and  I  could  laugh  at  my  torments.  .  .  . 

The  same  evening  I  told  Matteo  I  meant  to  leave 
Forli. 

"  Why  ? "  he  asked,  in  astonishment. 

"I  have  been  here  several  weeks/'  I  answered; 
"  I  don't  want  to  outstay  my  welcome.'* 

"  That  is  rubbish.  You  know  I  should  be  only 
too  glad  for  you  to  stay  here  all  your  life." 

"This  is  very  kind  of  you,"  I  replied,  with  a  laugh, 
"but  the  establishment  is  not  yours." 

"  That  makes  no  difference.  Besides,  Checco  has 
become  very  fond  of  you,  and  I'm  sure  he  wishes  you 
to  stay." 

"  Of  course,  I  know  your  hospitality  is  quite  un- 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  1 3  I 

limited ;  but  I  am  beginning  to  want  to  get  back  to 
Citta  di  Castello." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Matteo,  doubtfully. 

"One  likes  to  return  to  one's  native  place/' 

"  You  have  been  away  from  Castello  for  ten  years  ; 
you  cannot  be  in  any  particular  hurry  to  get  back  ? " 

I  was  beginning  to  protest,  when  Checco  came  in, 
and  Matteo  interrupted  me  with, — 

"  Listen,  Checco,  Filippo  says  he  wants  to  leave  us." 

"  But  he  sha'n't,"  said  Checco,  laughing. 

"  I  really  must,"  I  answered,  gravely. 

"  You  really  mustn't,"  replied  Checco.  "  We  can't 
spare  you,  Filippo." 

"There's  no  great  hurry  about  your  going  home," 
he  added,  when  I  had  explained  my  reasons,  "  and  I 
fancy  that  soon  we  shall  want  you  here.  A  good 
sword  and  a  brave  heart  will  probably  be  of  good  use 
to  us." 

"  Everything  is  as  quiet  as  a  cemetery,"  I  said, 
shrugging  my  shoulders. 

"  It  is  quiet  above  ;  but  below  there  are  rumblings 
and  strange  movements.  I  feel  sure  this  calm  only 
presages  a  storm.  It  is  impossible  for  Girolamo  to 
go  on  as  he  is  now  ;  his  debts  are  increasing  every 
day,  and  his  difficulties  will  soon  be  impracticable. 
He  must  do  something.  There  is  certain  to  be  a 
disturbance  at  any  attempt  to  put  on  the  taxes,  and 
then  Heaven  only  knows  what  will  happen." 


132  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

I  was  beginning  to  get  a  little  vexed  at  their  oppo- 
sition, and  I  answered,  petulantly : 

"No,  I  must  go." 

"  Stay  another  month  ;  things  must  come  to  a 
head  before  then." 

A  month  would  have  been  as  bad  as  a  year. 

"  I  am  out  of  health,"  I  answered  ;  "  I  feel  I  want 
to  get  into  a  different  atmosphere." 

Checco  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  Very  well,*  he  said,  "  we  can  arrange  matters  to 
suit  us  both.  I  want  some  one  to  go  to  Florence  for 
me  to  conclude  a  little  business  matter  with  Messer 
Lorenzo  de'  Medici.  You  would  be  away  a  fort- 
night ;  and,  if  you  are  out  of  sorts,  the  ride  across 
country  will  put  you  right.  Will  you  go?" 

I  thought  for  a  moment.  It  was  not  a  very  long 
absence,  but  the  new  sights  would  distract  me,  and 
I  wanted  to  see  Florence  again.  On  the  whole,  I 
thought  it  would  suffice,  and  that  I  could  count  on 
the  cure  of  my  ill  before  the  time  was  up. 

"  Very  well,"  I  answered. 

"  Good  !  And  you  will  have  a  pleasant  companion. 
I  had  talked  to  Scipione  Moratini  about  it  ;  it  did  not 
occur  to  me  that  you  would  go.  But  it  will  be  all  the 
better  to  have  two  of  you." 

"  If  I  go,"  I  said,  "  I  shall  go  alone." 

Checco  was  rather  astonished. 

"Why?" 

4 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  133 

"  Scipione  bores  me.  I  want  to  be  quiet  and  do 
as  I  like." 

I  was  quite  determined  that  neither  of  the  Mora- 
tini  should  come  with  me.  They  would  have  re- 
minded me  too  much  of  what  I  wanted  to  forget. 

"As  you  like,"  said  Checco.  "I  can  easily  tell 
Scipione  that  I  want  him  to  do  something  else  for 
me." 

"Thanks." 

"  When  will  you  start  ? " 

"At  once." 

"  Then  come,  and  I  will  give  you  the  instructions 
and  necessary  papers." 


CHAPTER   XV. 

NEXT  morning  I  mounted  my  horse  and  set  out 
with  Matteo,  who  was  to  accompany  me  for  a  little 
way. 

But  at  the  town  gate  a  guard  stopped  us  and  asked 
where  we  were  going. 

"  Out !  "  I  answered  shortly,  moving  on. 

"  Stop !  "  said  the  man,  catching  hold  of  my  bridle. 

"  What  the  devil  d'you  mean  ? "  said  Matteo. 
"D'you  know  whom  we  are?" 

"  I  have  orders  to  let  no  one  go  by  without  the 
permission  of  my  captain." 

"  What  tyrants  they  are  !  "  cried  Matteo.  "  Well, 
what  the  hell  are  you  standing  there  for  ?  Go  and 
tell  your  captain  to  come  out." 

The  man  signed  to  another  soldier,  who  went  into 
the  guard-house  ;  he  was  still  holding  my  bridle.  I 
was  not  very  good-tempered  that  morning. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  take  your  hands  off,"  I 
said. 

He  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to  refuse. 

"  Will  you  do  as  you  are  told  ? "     Then,  as  he 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  135 

hesitated,  I  brought  down  the  butt-end  of  my  whip 
on  his  fingers,  and,  with  an  oath,  bade  him  stand  off. 
He  let  go  at  once,  cursing,  and  looked  as  if  he  would 
stab  me  if  he  dared.  We  waited  impatiently,  but 
the  captain  did  not  appear. 

"  Why  the  devil  doesn't  this  man  come,"  I  said  ; 
and  Matteo,  turning  to  one  of  the  soldiers,  ordered : 

"Go  and  tell  him  to  come  here  instantly." 

At  that  moment  the  captain  appeared,  and  we 
understood  the  incident,  for  it  was  Ercole  Piacentini. 
He  had  apparently  seen  us  coming,  or  heard  of  my 
intended  journey,  and  had  set  himself  out  to  insult 
us.  We  were  both  furious. 

"  Why  the  devil  don't  you  hurry  up  when  you're 
sent  for?"  said  Matteo. 

He  scowled,  but  did  not  answer.  Turning  to  me, 
he  asked : 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

Matteo  and  I  looked  at  one  another,  in  amazement 
at  the  man's  impudence,  and  I  burst  forth  : 

"  You  insolent  fellow !  What  do  you  mean  by 
stopping  me  like  this  ? " 

"  I  have  a  right  to  refuse  passage  to  any  one  I 
choose." 

"  Take  care !  "  I  said.  "  I  swear  the  count  shall 
be  told  of  your  behaviour,  and  nowadays  the  count  is 
in  the  habit  of  doing  as  the  Orsi  tell  him." 

"  He  shall  hear  of  this,"  growled  the  Piacentini. 


136  THE  MAKING   OF  A  SAINT. 

"  Tell  him  what  you  like.  Do  you  think  I  care  ? 
You  can  tell  him  that  I  consider  his  captain  a  very 
impertinent  ruffian.  Now,  let  me  go." 

"  You  shall  not  pass  till  I  choose." 

"  By  God !  man,"  I  said,  absolutely  beside  myself, 
"it  seems  I  cannot  touch  you  here,  but  if  ever  we 
meet  in  Citta  di  Castello — " 

"I  will  give  you  any  satisfaction  you  wish,"  he 
answered,  hotly. 

"  Satisfaction !  I  would  not  soil  my  sword  by 
crossing  it  with  yours.  I  was  going  to  say  that  if 
ever  we  meet  in  Castello  I  will  have  you  whipped 
by  my  lackeys  in  the  public  place." 

I  felt  a  ferocious  pleasure  in  throwing  the  words 
of  contempt  in  his  face. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Matteo ;  "we  cannot  waste  our 
time  here." 

We  put  the  spurs  to  our  horses.  The  soldiers 
looked  to  their  captain  to  see  whether  they  should 
stop  us,  but  he  gave  no  order,  and  we  passed  through. 
When  we  got  outside,  Matteo  said  to  me : 

"  Girolamo  must  be  planning  something,  or  Ercole 
would  not  have  dared  to  do  that." 

"  It  is  only  the  impotent  anger  of  a  foolish  man," 
I  answered.  "The  count  will  probably  be  very 
angry  with  him  when  he  hears  of  it." 

We  rode  a  few  miles,  and  then  Matteo  turned 
back.  When  I  found  myself  alone  I  heaved  a  great 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  137 

sigh  of  relief.  I  was  free  for  awhile  at  least.  .  .  . 
Another  episode  in  my  life  was  finished ;  I  could 
forget  it,  and  look  forward  to  new  things. 

As  I  rode  on,  the  March  wind  got  into  my  blood 
and  sent  it  whirling  madly  through  my  veins.  The 
sun  was  shining  brightly,  and  covered  everything 
with  smiles ;  the  fruit-trees  were  all  in  flower,  — 
apples,  pears,  almonds,  —  the  dainty  buds  covered 
the  branches  with  a  snow  of  pink  and  white.  The 
ground  beneath  them  was  bespattered  with  narcissi 
and  anemones  ;  the  very  olive-trees  looked  gay.  All 
the  world  laughed  with  joy  at  the  bright  spring 
morning,  and  I  laughed  louder  than  the  rest.  I 
drew  in  long  breaths  of  the  keen  air,  and  it  made 
me  drunk,  so  that  I  set  the  spurs  to  my  horse  and 
galloped  wildly  along  the  silent  road. 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  forget  Giulia,  and  I 
succeeded,  for  the  changing  scenes  took  me  away 
from  myself,  and  I  was  intent  on  the  world  at  large. 
But  I  could  not  command  my  dreams.  At  night  she 
came  to  me,  and  I  dreamed  that  she  was  by  my  side, 
with  her  arms  around  my  neck,  sweetly  caressing, 
trying  to  make  me  forget  what  I  had  suffered.  And 
the  waking  was  bitter.  .  .  .  But  even  that  would 
leave  me  soon,  I  hoped,  and  then  I  should  be  free 
indeed. 

I  rode  on,  full  of  courage  and  good  spirits,  along 
endless  roads,  putting  up  at  wayside  inns,  through 


138  THE  MAKING  OF  A   SAINT. 

the  mountains,  past  villages  and  hamlets,  past  thriv- 
ing towns,  till  I  found  myself  in  the  heart  of  Tuscany, 
and  finally  I  saw  the  roofs  of  Florence  spread  out 
before  me. 

After  I  had  cleaned  myself  at  the  inn,  and  had 
eaten,  I  sauntered  through  the  town,  renewing  my 
recollections.  I  walked  around  Madonna  del  Fiore, 
and,  leaning  against  one  of  the  houses  at  the  back  of 
the  piazza,  looked  at  the  beautiful  apse,  the  marble  all 
glistening  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  very  quiet  and 
peaceful;  the  exquisite  church  filled  me  with  a  sense 
of  rest  and  purity,  so  that  I  cast  far  from  me  all  vice. 
.  .  .  Then  I  went  to  the  baptistery,  and  tried  to 
make  out  in  the  dim  light  the  details  of  Ghiberti's 
wonderful  doors.  It  was  late,  and  the  streets  were 
silent,  as  I  strolled  to  the  Piazza  della  Signoria,  and 
saw  before  me  the  grim  stone  palace  with  its  tower, 
and  I  came  down  to  the  Arno  and  looked  at  the 
glistening  of  the  water,  with  the  bridge  covered  with 
houses  ;  and,  as  I  considered  the  beauty  of  it  all,  I 
thought  it  strange  that  the  works  of  man  should  be 
so  good  and  pure,  and  man  himself  so  vile. 

Next  day  I  set  about  my  business.  I  had  a  spe- 
cial letter  of  introduction  to  Lorenzo,  and  was  ushered 
in  to  him  by  a  clerk.  I  found  two  people  in  the 
room  :'  one,  a  young  man  with  a  long,  oval  face,  and 
the  bones  of  the  face  and  chin  very  strongly  marked ; 
he  had  a  very  wonderful  skin,  like  brown  ivory,  black 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  139 

hair  that  fell  over  his  forehead  and  ears,  and,  most 
striking  of  all,  large  brown  eyes,  very  soft  and  mel- 
ancholy. I  thought  I  had  never  before  seen  a  man 
quite  so  beautiful.  Seated  by  him,  talking  with  ani- 
mation, was  an  insignificant  man,  bent  and  wrinkled 
and  mean,  looking  like  a  clerk  in  a  cloth  merchant's 
shop,  except  for  the  massive  golden  chain  about  his 
neck  and  the  dress  of  dark  red  velvet  with  an  em- 
broidered collar.  His  features  were  ugly ;  a  large, 
coarse  nose,  a  heavy,  sensual  mouth,  small  eyes,  but 
very  sharp  and  glittering ;  the  hair  thin  and  short, 
the  skin  muddy,  yellow,  wrinkled,  —  Lorenzo.de1 
Medici ! 

As  I  entered  the  room,  he  interrupted  himself  and 
spoke  to  me  in  a  harsh,  disagreeable  voice. 

"  Messer  Filippo  Brandolini,  I  think.  You  are 
very  welcome." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  interrupt  you,"  I  said,  looking  at 
the  youth  with  the  melancholy  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no/'  answered  Lorenzo,  gaily.  "  We  were 
talking  of  Plato.  I  really  ought  to  have  been  attend- 
ing to  very  much  more  serious  matters,  but  I  never 
can  resist  Pico." 

Then  that  was  the  famous  Pico  della  Mirandola. 
I  looked  at  him  again,  and  felt  envious  that  one  per- 
son should  be   possessed   of   such  genius   and  such, 
beauty.     It  was  hardly  fair  on  Nature's  part. 

"  It  is  more  the  subject  than  I  that  is  irresistible/' 


140  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Ah,  the  banquet ! "  said  Lorenzo,  clasping  his 
hands.  "  What  an  inexhaustible  matter  !  I  could 
go  on  talking  about  it  all  day  and  all  night  for  a  year, 
and  then  find  I  had  left  unsaid  half  what  I  had  in  my 
mind." 

"You  have  so  vast  an  experience  in  the  subject 
treated  of,"  said  Pico,  laughing;  "you  could  give  a 
chapter  of  comment  to  every  sentence  of  Plato." 

"  You  rascal,  Pico  !  "  answered  Lorenzo,  also  laugh- 
ing. "  And  what  is  your  opinion  of  love,  messer  ? " 
he  added,  turning  to  me. 

I  answered,  smiling : 

"  Con  tua  promesse,  et  tua  false  parole, 
Con  falsi  risi,  et  con  vago  sembiante, 
Donna,  menato  hai  il  tuo  fidele  amante." 

Those  promises  of  thine,  and  those  false  words, 
Those  traitor  smiles,  and  that  inconstant  seeming, 
Lady,  with  these  thou'st  led  astray  thy  faithful  lover. 

They  were  Lorenzo's  own  lines,  and  he  was 
delighted  that  I  should  quote  them,  but  still  the 
pleasure  was  not  too  great,  and  I  saw  that  it  must 
be  subtle  flattery  indeed  that  should  turn  his 
head. 

"  You  have  the  spirit  of  a  courtier,  Messer  Filippo," 
he  said,  in  reply  to  my  quotation.  "  You  are  wasted 
on  liberty !  " 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  SAINT.  14! 

"  It  is  in  the  air  in  Florence,  —  one  breathes  it  in 
through  every  pore." 

"What,  liberty?" 

"  No  ;  the  spirit  of  the  courtier." 

Lorenzo  looked  at  me  sharply,  then  at  Pico,  repress- 
ing a  smile  at  my  sarcasm. 

"  Well,  about  your  business  from  Forli  ?  "  he  said  ; 
but  when  I  began  explaining  the  transaction,  he  inter- 
rupted me.  "  Oh,  all  that  you  can  arrange  with  my 
secretaries.  Tell  me  what  is  going  on  in  the  town. 
There  have  been  rumours  of  disturbance." 

I  looked  at  Pico,  who  rose  and  went  out,  say- 
ing: 

"  I  will  leave  you.     Politics  are  not  for  me." 

I  told  Lorenzo  all  that  had  happened,  while  he 
listened  intently,  occasionally  interrupting  me  to  ask 
a  question.  When  I  had  finished,  he  said  : 

"  And  what  will  happen  now  ? " 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  Who  knows  ?  " 

"  The  wise  man  knows,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "  for  he 
has  made  up  his  mind  what  will  happen,  and  goes 
about  to  cause  it  to  happen.  It  is  only  the  fool  who 
trusts  to  chance  and  waits  for  circumstances  to 
develop  themselves.  .  .  . 

"  Tell  your  master  —  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  I  interrupted. 

He  looked  at  me  interrogatively. 


142  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  I  was  wondering  of  whom  you  were  speaking,  I 
murmured. 

He  understood  and,  smiling,  said  : 

"  I  apologise.  I  was  thinking  you  were  a  Forlivese. 
Of  course,  I  remember  now  that  you  are  a  citizen  of 
Castello,  and  we  all  know  how  tenacious  they  have 
been  of  their  liberty  and  how  proud  of  their  free- 
dom." 

He  had  me  on  the  hip,  for  Citta  di  Castello  had 
been  among  the  first  of  the  towns  to  lose  its  liberty, 
and,  unlike  others,  had  borne  its  servitude  with  more 
equanimity  than  was  honourable. 

"  However,"  he  went  on,  "tell  Checco  d'Orsi  that 
I  know  Girolamo  Riario.  It  was  his  father  and  he 
who  were  the  prime  movers  in  the  conspiracy  which 
killed  my  brother  and  nearly  killed  myself.  Let  him 
remember  that  the  Riario  is  perfectly  unscrupulous, 
and  that  he  is  not  accustomed  to  forgive  an  injury,— 
or  forget  it.  You  say  that  Girolamo  has  repeatedly 
threatened  Checco.  Has  that  had  no  effect  on 
him  ? " 

"  He  was  somewhat  alarmed/' 

"  Besides?" 

I  looked  at  him,  trying  to  seize  his  meaning. 

"  Did  he  make  up  his  mind  to  sit  still  and  wait  till 
Girolamo  found  means  to  carry  his  threats  into 
effect?" 

I  was  rather  at  a  loss  for  an  answer.     Lorenzo's 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  143 

eyes  were  fixed  keenly  upon  me ;  they  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  read  my  brain. 

"  It  was  suggested  to  him  that  it  would  be  unwise," 
I  replied,  slowly. 

"  And  what  did  he  answer  to  that  ?  " 

"He  recalled  the  ill  results  of  certain  recent  — 
events." 

«  Ah ! " 

He  took  his  eyes  off  me,  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
seen  the  meaning  behind  my  words,  and  was  now 
quite  sure  of  everything  he  wanted  to  know.  He 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  thinking ;  then  he  said 
to  me : 

"  Tell  Checco  that  Girolamo's  position  is  very  in- 
secure. The  Pope  is  against  him,  though  he  pretends 
to  uphold  him.  You  remember  that  when  the  Zam- 
peschi  seized  his  castle  of  San  Marco,  Girolamo 
thought  they  had  the  tacit  consent  of  the  Pope,  and 
dared  make  no  reprisal.  Lodovico  Sforza  would 
doubtless  come  to  the  assistance  of  his  half-sister, 
but  he  is  occupied  with  the  Venetians,  —  and  if  the 
people  of  Forli  hate  the  count !  " 

"  Then  you  advise  —  " 

"  I  advise  nothing.  But  let  Checco  know  that  it 
is  only  the  fool  who  proposes  to  himself  an  end  when 
he  cannot  or  will  not  attain  it ;  but  the  man  who 
deserves  the  name  of  man  marches  straight  to  the 
goal  with  clearness  of  mind  and  strength  of  will.  He 


144  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

looks  at  things  as  they  are,  and  puts  aside  all  vain 
appearances  ;  and  when  his  intelligence  has  shown 
him  the  means  to  his  end,  he  is  a  fool  if  he  refuses 
them,  and  he  is  a  wise  man  if  he  uses  them  steadily 
and  unhesitatingly.  Tell  that  to  Checco  !  " 

He  threw  himself  into  his  chair  with  a  little  cry  of 
relief. 

"  Now  we  can  talk  of  other  things.     Pico  !  " 
A  servant   came  in  to   say  that    Pico  had  gone 
away. 

"The  villain!"  cried  Lorenzo.  "But  I  daresay 
you  will  want  to  go  away,  too,  Messer  Brandolini. 
But  you  must  come  to-morrow ;  we  are  going  to 
act  the  Menacchini  of  Plautus  ;  and  besides  the  wit 
of  the  Latin  you  will  see  all  the  youth  and  beauty  of 
Florence." 

As  I  took  my  leave,  he  added  : 

"  I  need  not  warn  you  to  be  discreet," 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  FEW  days  later  I  found  myself  in  sight  of  Forli. 
As  I  rode  along,  I  meditated;  and  presently  the 
thought  came  to  me  that,  after  all,  there  was  per- 
haps a  certain  equality  in  the  portioning  out  of  good 
and  evil  in  this  world.  When  fate  gave  one  happi- 
ness, she  followed  it  with  unhappiness,  but  the  two 
lasted  about  an  equal  time,  so  that  the  balance  was 
not  unevenly  preserved.  ...  In  my  love  for  Giulia 
I  had  gone  through  a  few  days  of  intense  happiness  ; 
the  first  kiss  had  caused  me  such  ecstasy  that  I  was 
rapt  up  to  heaven ;  I  felt  myself  a  god.  And  this 
was  followed  by  a  sort  of  passive  happiness,  when  I 
lived  but  to  enjoy  my  love,  and  cared  for  nothing  in 
the  world  besides.  Then  came  the  catastrophe,  and 
I  passed  through  the  most  awful  misery  that  man 
had  ever  felt ;  even  now,  as  I  thought  of  it,  the 
sweat  gathered  on  my  forehead.  But  I  noticed  that 
strangely  as  this  wretchedness  was  equal  with  the 
first  happiness,  so  was  it  equal  in  length.  And  this 
was  followed  by  a  passive  unhappiness,  when  I  no 
longer  felt  all  the  bitterness  of  my  woe,  but  only  a 


146  THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

certain  dull  misery,  which  was  like  peace.  And  half 
smiling,  half  sighing,  I  thought  that  the  passive 
misery  again  was  equal  to  the  passive  happiness. 
Finally  came  the  blessed  state  of  indifference,  and, 
except  for  the  remembrance,  my  heart  was  as  if 
nothing  had  been  at  all.  So  it  seemed  to  me  that 
one  ought  not  to  complain  ;  for  if  the  world  had  no 
right  to  give  one  continual  misery,  one  had  no  cause 
to  expect  unmingled  happiness,  and  the  conjunction 
of  the  two,  in  all  things  equal,  seemed  normal  and 
reasonable.  And  I  had  not  noticed  that  I  was  come 
to  Forli. 

I  entered  the  gate  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  home- 
coming. I  passed  along  the  gray  streets  I  was  begin- 
ning to  know  so  well,  and  felt  for  them  something 
of  the  affection  of  old  friends.  I  was  glad,  too,  that 
I  should  shortly  see  Checco  and  my  dear  Matteo.  I 
felt  I  had  been  unkind  to  Matteo  :  he  was  so  fond 
of  me,  and  had  always  been  so  good,  and  I  had  been 
so  wrapped  up  in  my  love  that  his  very  presence  had 
been  importunate,  and  I  had  responded  coldly  to  his 
friendliness.  And  being  then  in  a  sentimental  mood, 
I  thought  how  much  better  and  more  trustworthy  a 
friend  is  than  the  most  lovely  woman  in  the  world. 
You  could  neglect  him  and  be  unfaithful  to  him,  and 
yet,  if  you  were  in  trouble,  you  could  come  back  and 
he  would  take  you  to  his  arms  and  comfort  you, 
and  never  once  complain  that  you  had  strayed  away. 


THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  147 

I  longed  to  be  with  Matteo,  clasping  his  hand.  In 
my  hurry,  I  put  the  spurs  to  my  horse,  and  clattered 
along  the  street.  In  a  few  minutes  I  had  reached  the 
Palazzo,  leaped  off  my  horse,  sprung  up  the  stairs,  and 
flung  myself  into  the  arms  of  my  friend. 

After  the  first  greetings,  Matteo  dragged  me  along 
to  Checco. 

"  The  good  cousin  is  most  eager  to  hear  your  news. 
We  must  not  keep  him  waiting/* 

Checco  seemed  as  pleased  to  see  me  as  Matteo. 
He  warmly  pressed  my  hand,  and  said  : 

"I  am  glad  to  have  you  back,  Filippo.  In  your 
absence  we  have  been  lamenting  like  forsaken  shep- 
herdesses. Now,  what  is  your  news  ? " 

I  was  fully  impressed  with  my  importance  at  the 
moment,  and  the  anxiety  with  which  I  was  being  lis- 
tened to.  I  resolved  not  to  betray  myself  too  soon, 
and  began  telling  them  about  the  kindness  of  Lorenzo, 
and  the  play  which  he  had  invited  me  to  see.  I  de- 
scribed the  brilliancy  of  the  assembly,  and  the  excel- 
lence of  the  acting.  They  listened  with  interest/  but 
I  could  see  it  was  not  what  they  wanted  to  hear. 

"  But  I  see  you  want  to  hear  about  more  important 
matters/'  I  said.  "Well  —  " 

"Ah!"  they  cried,  drawing  their  chairs  closer  to 
me,  settling  themselves  to  listen  attentively. 

With  a  slight  smile  I  proceeded  to  give  them  the 
details  of  the  commercial  transaction  which  had  been 


148  THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

the  ostensible  purpose  of  my  visit,  and  I  laughed  to 
myself  as  I  saw  their  disgust.  Checco  could  not 
restrain  his  impatience,  but  did  not  like  to  interrupt 
me.  Matteo,  however,  saw  that  I  was  mocking,  and 
interrupted  me. 

"  Confound  you,  Filippo  !  Why  do  you  torment 
us  when  you  know  we  are  on  pins  and  needles?" 

Checco  looked  up  and  saw  me  laughing,  and 
implored  : 

"  Put  us  out  of  torture,  for  heaven's  sake  !  " 

"Very  well!"  I  answered.  "Lorenzo  asked  me 
about  the  state  of  Forli,  and  I  told  him.  Then,  after 
thinking  awhile,  he  said,  '  Tell  this  to  Checco  - 

And  I  repeated,  word  for  word,  what  Lorenzo  had 
said  to  me,  and,  as  far  as  I  could,  I  reproduced  his 
accent  and  gesture. 

When  I  had  finished,  they  both  sat  still  and  silent. 
At  last  Matteo,  glancing  to  his  cousin,  said  : 

"It  seems  sufficiently  clear." 

"  It  is,  indeed,  very  clear,"  answered  Checco, 
gravely. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

I  MADE  up  my  mind  to  amuse  myself  now.  I  was 
sick  of  being  grave  and  serious.  When  one  thinks 
how  short  a  while  youth  lasts,  it  is  foolish  not  to  take 
the  best  advantage  of  it ;  the  time  man  has  at  his 
disposal  is  not  long  enough  for  tragedy  and  moan- 
ing ;  he  has  only  room  for  a  little  laughter,  and  then 
his  hair  gets  gray,  and  his  knees  shaky,  and  he  is  left 
repenting  that  he  did  not  make  more  of  his  opportu- 
nities. So  many  people  have  told  me  that  they  have 
never  regretted  their  vices,  but  often  their  virtues ! 
Life  is  too  short  to  take  things  seriously.  Let  us  eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die. 

There  was  really  so  much  to  do  in  Forli  that 
amusement  became  almost  hard  work.  There  were 
hunting  parties  in  which  we  scoured  the  country  all 
day,  and  returned  at  night,  tired  and  sleepy,  but  with 
a  delicious  feeling  of  relief,  stretching  our  limbs  like 
giants  waking  from  their  sleep.  There  were  excur- 
sions to  villas,  where  we  would  be  welcomed  by  some 
kind  lady,  and  repeat  on  a  smaller  scale  the  Decam- 
eron of  Boccaccio,  or  imitate  the  learned  conversa- 

149 


ISO  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

tions  of  Lorenzo  and  his  circle  at  Careggio  ;  we  could 
platonise  as  well  as  they,  and  we  discovered  the  charm 
of  treating  impropriety  from  a  philosophic  point  of 
view.  We  would  set  ourselves  some  subject  and  all 
write  sonnets  on  it,  and  I  noticed  that  the  produc- 
tions of  our  ladies  were  always  more  highly  spiced 
than  our  own.  Sometimes  we  would  play  at  being 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  but  in  this  I  always 
failed  lamentably,  for  my  nymph  invariably  com- 
plained that  I  was  not  as  enterprising  as  a  swain 
should  be.  Then  we  would  act  pastoral  plays  in  the 
shadow  of  the  trees  ;  Orpheus  was  our  favourite  sub- 
ject, and  I  was  always  set  for  the  title  part,  rather 
against  my  will,  for  I  could  never  bring  the  proper 
vigour  into  my  lament  for  Eurydice,  since  it  always 
struck  me  as  both  unreasonable  and  ungallant  to  be 
so  inconsolable  for  the  loss  of  one  love  when  there 
were  all  around  so  many  to  console  one.  .  .  . 

And  in  Forli  itself  there  was  a  continuous  whirl 
of  amusement,  festivities  of  every  kind  crowded  on 
one,  so  that  one  had  scarcely  time  to  sleep,  from  the 
gravity  and  instructive  tedium  of  a  comedy  by  Ter- 
ence to  a  drinking  bout  or  a  card-party.  I  went 
everywhere,  and  everywhere  received  the  heartiest 
of  welcomes.  I  could  sing  and  dance,  and  play  the 
lute,  and  act,  and  I  was  ready  to  compose  a  sonnet, 
or  an  ode,  at  a  moment's  notice  ;  in  a  week  I  could 
produce  a  five-act  tragedy  in  the  Senecan  manner,  or 


MAKING  OF  A  SAMT.  l$t 

an  epic  on  Rinaldo  or  Launcelot,  and,  as  I  had  not  a 
care  in  the  world,  and  was  as  merry  as  a  drunken 
friar,  they  opened  their  arms  to  me,  and  gave  me  the 
best  of  all  they  had.  .  .  . 

I  was  attentive  to  all  the  ladies,  and  scandalous 
tongues  gave  me  half  a  dozen  mistresses,  with  details 
of  the  siege  and  capture.  I  wondered  whether  the 
amiable  Giulia  heard  the  stories,  and  what  she 
thought  of  them.  Occasionally  I  saw  her,  but  I 
did  not  trouble  to  speak  to  her;  Forli  was  large 
enough  for  the  two  of  us ;  and  when  people  are 
disagreeable,  why  should  you  trouble  your  head 
about  them  ? 

One  afternoon  I  rode  with  Matteo  a  few  miles  out 
of  Forli,  to  a  villa  where  there  was  to  be  some  festivity 
in  honour  of  a  christening.  It  was  a  beautiful  spot, 
with  fountains  and  shady  walks,  and  pleasant  lawns 
of  well-mown  grass,  and  I  set  myself  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  another  day.  Among  the  guests  was 
Claudia  Piacentini.  I  pretended  to  be  very  angry 
with  her  because,  at  a  ball  which  she  had  recently 
given,  I  had  not  received  the  honour  of  an  invitation. 
She  came  to  me  to  ask  forgiveness. 

"  It  was  my  husband,"  she  said,  which  I  knew 
perfectly  well.  "  He  said  he  would  not  have  you 
in  his  house.  You've  had  another  quarrel  with 
him  !  " 


152  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  How  can  I  help  it,  when  I  see  him  the  possessor 
of  the  lovely  Claudia  !  " 

"He  says  he  will  never  be  satisfied  till  he  has 
your  blood." 

I  was  not  alarmed. 

"  He  talked  of  making  a  vow  never  to  cut  his 
beard  or  his  hair  till  he  had  his  revenge,  but  I 
implored  him  not  to  make  himself  more  hideous 
than  a  merciful  Providence  had  already  made  him." 

I  thought  of  the  ferocious  Ercole,  with  a  long, 
untrimmed  beard,  and  unkempt  hair  falling  over  his 
face. 

"  He  would  have  looked  like  a  wild  man  of  the 
woods,"  I  said.  "  I  should  have  had  to  allow  myself 
to  be  massacred  for  the  good  of  society.  I  should 
have  been  one  more  of  the  martyrs  of  humanity,  — ' 
Saint  Philip  Brandolini !  " 

I  offered  her  my  arm,  suggesting  a  saunter  through 
the  gardens.  .  .  .  We  wandered  along  cool  paths, 
bordered  with  myrtle,  and  laurel,  and  cypress  trees  ; 
the  air  was  filled  with  the  song  of  birds,  and  a  gentle 
breeze  bore  to  us  the  scent  of  the  spring  flowers. 

By  and  by,  we  came  to  a  little  lawn,  shut  in  by  tall 
shrubs ;  in  the  middle  a  fountain  was  playing,  and 
under  the  shadow  of  a  chestnut-tree  was  a  marble 
seat  supported  by  griffins  ;  in  one  corner  stood  a 
statue  of  Venus,  framed  in  green  bushes.  We  had 
left  the  throng  of  guests  far  behind,  and  the  place 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

was  very  still  ;  the  birds,  as  if  oppressed  with  its 
beauty,  had  ceased  to  sing,  and  only  the  fountain 
broke  the  silence.  The  unceasing  fall  of  water  was 
like  a  lullaby  in  its  monotony,  and  the  air  was 
scented  with  lilac. 

We  sat  down.  The  quiet  was  delightful ;  peace 
and  beauty  filled  one,  and  I  felt  a  great  sense  of 
happiness  pass  into  me,  like  some  subtle  liquid,  per- 
meating every  corner  of  my  soul.  The  smell  of  the 
lilac  was  beginning  to  intoxicate  me,  and  from  my 
happiness  issued  a  sentiment  of  love  towards  all 
nature  ;  I  felt  as  though  I  could  stretch  out  my  arms 
and  embrace  its  impalpable  spirit.  The  Venus  in 
the  corner  gained  fleshlike  tints  of  green  and  yellow, 
and  seemed  to  be  melting  into  life;  the  lilac  came 
across  to  me  in  great  waves,  oppressive,  over- 
powering. 

I  looked  at  Claudia.  I  thought  she  was  affected 
as  myself ;  she,  too,  was  overwhelmed  by  the  murmur 
of  the  water,  the  warmth,  and  scented  air.  And  I 
was  struck  again  with  the  wonderful  voluptuousness 
of  her  beauty  ;  her  mouth  sensual  and  moist,  the  lips 
deep  red,  and  heavy.  Her  neck  was  wonderfully 
massive,  so  white  that  the  veins  showed  clear  and 
blue ;  her  clinging  dress  revealed  the  fullness  of  her 
form,  its  undulating  curves.  She  seemed  some  god- 
dess of  sensuality.  As  I  looked  at  her,  I  was  filled 
with  a  sudden  blind  desire  to  possess  her.  I  stretched 


154  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

out  my  arms,  and  she,  with  a  cry  of  passion,  like  an 
animal,  surrendered  herself  to  my  embrace.  I  drew 
her  to  me,  and  kissed  her  beautiful  mouth,  sensual 
and  moist,  her  lips  deep  red,  and  heavy.  .  .  . 

We  sat  side  by  side,  looking  at  the  fountain, 
breathing  in  the  scented  air. 

"  When  can  I  see  you  ?  "  I  whispered. 

"  To-morrow.  .  .  .  After  midnight.  Come  into 
the  little  street  behind  my  house,  and  a  door  will  be 
opened  to  you/' 

"  Claudia  !  " 

"  Good-bye.  You  must  not  come  back  with  me 
now ;  we  have  been  away  so  long,  people  would  no- 
tice us.  Wait  here  awhile  after  me,  and  then  there 
will  be  no  fear.  Good-bye. " 

She  left  me,  and  I  stretched  myself  on  the  marble 
seat,  looking  at  the  little  rings  which  the  drops  made 
as  they  fell  on  the  water.  My  love  for  Giulia  was 
indeed  finished  now,  —  dead,  buried,  and  a  stone 
Venus  erected  over  it,  as  the  only  sign  of  its  exist- 
ence. I  tried  to  think  of  a  suitable  inscription.  .  .  . 
Time  could  kill  the  most  obstinate  love,  and  a  beau- 
.tiful  woman,  with  the  breezes  of  spring  to  help  her, 
could  carry  away  even  the  remembrance.  I  felt  that 
my  life  was  now  complete.  I  had  all  pleasures  imag- 
inable at  my  beck  and  call ;  good  wines  to  drink, 
good  foods  to  eat,  nice  clothes ;  games,  sports,  and 
pastimes ;  and,  last  of  all,  the  greatest  gift  the  gods 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  155 

can  make,  a  beautiful  woman  to  my  youth  and 
strength.  I  had  arrived  at  the  summit  of  wisdom, 
the  point  aimed  at  by  the  wise  man,  to  take  the  day 
as  it  comes,  seizing  the  pleasures,  avoiding  the  dis- 
agreeable, enjoying  the  present,  and  giving  no  thought 
to  the  past  or  future.  That,  I  said  to  myself,  is  the 
highest  wisdom,  —  never  to  think ;  for  the  way  of 
happiness  is  to  live  in  one's  senses,  as  the  beasts,  and 
like  the  ox,  chewing  the  cud,  use  the  mind  only  to 
consider  one's  superiority  to  the  rest  of  mankind. 

I  laughed  a  little,  as  I  thought  of  my  tears  and 
cries  when  Giulia  left  me.  It  was  not  a  matter 
worth  troubling  about ;  all  I  should  have  said  to  my- 
self was  that  I  was  a  fool  not  to  abandon  her  before 
she  abandoned  me.  Poor  Giulia  !  I  quite  frightened 
her  in  the  vehemence  of  my  rage. 

The  following  evening  I  would  not  let  Matteo  go 
to  bed. 

"  You  must  keep  me  company,"  I  said ;  "  I  am  go- 
ing out  at  one." 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "if  you  will  tell  me  where 
you're  going." 

"  Ah,  no,  that  is  a  secret ;  but  I'm  willing  to  drink 
her  health  with  you." 

"  Without  a  name  ? " 

"  Yes ! " 

"  To  the  nameless  one,  then  ;  and  good  luck  !  " 

Then,  after  a  little  conversation,  he  said : 


156  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  suffered  no  more  from  Giulia 
dair  Aste.  I  was  afraid  —  " 

"  Oh,  these  things  pass  off.  I  took  your  advice, 
and  found  the  best  way  to  console  myself  was  to  fall 
in  love  with  somebody  else." 

There  was  a  little  excitement  in  going  to  this  mys- 
terious meeting.  I  wondered  whether  it  was  a  trap 
arranged  by  the  amiable  Ercole  to  get  me  in  his 
power  and  rid  himself  of  my  unpleasant  person.  But 
faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady,  and  even  if  he  set  on 
me  with  two  or  three  others,  I  should  be  able  to  give 
a  reasonable  account  of  myself. 

But  there  had  been  nothing  to  fear.  On  my  way 
home,  as  the  day  was  breaking,  I  smiled  to  myself  at 
the  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  a  woman  had  opened 
the  little  door,  and  shown  me  into  the  room  Claudia 
had  told  me  of.  She  was  evidently  well  used  to  her 
business ;  she  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  look 
into  my  face  to  see  who  was  the  newcomer.  I  won- 
dered how  many  well-cloaked  gallants  she  had  let  in 
by  the  same  door  ;  I  did  not  care  if  they  were  half  a 
hundred.  I  did  not  suppose  the  beautiful  Claudia 
was  more  virtuous  than  myself.  Suddenly  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  I  had  revenged  myself  on  Ercole 
Piacentini  at  last ;  and  the  quaint  thought,  coming 
unexpectedly,  made  me  stop  dead  and  burst  into  a 
shout  of  laughter.  The  thought  of  that  hangdog 


THE  MAKING   Of  A   SAINT.  157 

visage,  and  the  beautiful  ornaments  I  had  given  him, 
was  enough  to  make  a  dead  man  merry.  Oh,  it  was 
a  fairer  revenge  than  any  I  could  have  dreamed  of  ! 

But,  besides  that,  I  was  filled  with  a  great  sense 
of  pleasure  because  I  was  at  last  free.  I  felt  that  if 
some  slight  chain  still  bound  me  to  Giulia  now,  even 
that  was  broken,  and  I  had  recovered  my  liberty. 
There  was  no  love  this  time.  There  was  a  great  de- 
sire for  the  magnificent  sensual  creature,  with  the 
lips  deep  red  and  heavy ;  but  it  left  my  mind  free. 
I  was  now  again  a  complete  man ;  and  this  time  I 
had  no  Nemesis  to  fear. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AND  so  my  life  went  on  for  a  little  while,  filled 
with  pleasure  and  amusement.  I  was  contented  with 
my  lot,  and  had  no  wish  for  change.  The  time  went 
by,  and  we  reached  the  first  week  in  April.  Giro- 
lamo  had  organised  a  great  ball  to  celebrate  the  com- 
pletion of  his  palace.  He  had  started  living  in  it  as 
soon  as  there  were  walls  and  roof,  but  he  had  spent 
years  on  the  decorations,  taking  into  his  service  the 
best  artists  he  could  find  in  Italy  ;  and  now,  at  last, 
everything  was  finished.  The  Orsi  had  been  invited 
with  peculiar  cordiality,  and  on  the  night  we  betook 
ourselves  to  the  Palace. 

We  walked  up  the  stately  staircase,  a  masterpiece 
of  architecture,  and  found  ourselves  in  the  enormous 
hall  which  Girolamo  had  designed  especially  for  gor- 
geous functions.  It  was  ablaze  with  light.  At  the 
further  end,  on  a  low  stage,  led  up  to  by  three  broad 
steps,  under  a  dais,  on  high-backed,  golden  chairs, 
sat  Girolamo  and  Caterina  Sforza.  Behind  them,  in 
a  semicircle,  and  on  the  steps  at  each  side,  were  the 
ladies  of  Caterina's  suite,  and  a  number  of  gentle- 

158 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  159 

men ;  at  the  back,  standing  like  statues,  a  row  of 
men-at-arms. 

"  It  is  almost  regal ! "  said  Checco,  pursing  up  his 
lips. 

"  It  is  not  so  poor  a  thing  to  be  the  Lord  of  Forli," 
answered  Matteo.  Fuel  to  the  fire  ! 

We  approached,  and  Girolamo,  as  he  saw  us,  rose 
and  came  down  the  steps. 

"  Hail,  my  Checco ! "  he  said,  taking  both  his 
hands.  "Till  you  had  come,  the  assembly  was  not 
complete. " 

Matteo  and  I  went  to  the  countess.  She  had  sur- 
passed herself  this  night.  Her  dress  was  of  cloth  of 
silver,  shimmering  and  sparkling.  In  her  hair  were 
diamonds,  shining  like  fireflies  in  the  night ;  her 
arms,  her  neck,  her  fingers,  glittered  with  costly  gems. 
I  had  never  seen  her  look  so  beautiful,  nor  so  magnif- 
icent. Let  them  say  what  they  liked,  Checco,  and 
Matteo,  and  the  rest  of  them,  but  she  was  born  to  be 
a  queen.  How  strange  that  this  offspring  of  the 
rough  Condottiere  and  the  lewd  woman  should  have 
a  majesty  such  as  one  imagines  of  a  mighty  empress 
descended  from  countless  kings. 

She  took  the  trouble  to  be  particularly  gracious  to 
us.  Me  she  complimented  on  some  verses  she  had 
seen,  and  was  very  flattering  in  reference  to  a  pasto- 
ral play  which  I  had  arranged.  She  could  not  con- 
gratulate my  good  Matteo  on  any  intellectual  achieve- 


l6o  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

ments,  but  the  fame  of  his  amours  gave  her  a  subject 
on  which  she  could  playfully  reproach  him.  She  de- 
manded details,  and  I  left  her  listening  intently  to 
some  history  which  Matteo  was  whispering  in  her 
ear;  and  I  knew  he  was  not  particular  in  what  he 
said. 

I  felt  in  peculiarly  high  spirits,  and  I  looked  about 
for  some  one  on  whom  to  vent  my  good  humour.  I 
caught  sight  of  Giulia.  I  had  seen  her  once  or  twice 
since  my  return  to  Forli,  but  had  never  spoken  to 
her.  Now  I  felt  sure  of  myself  ;  I  knew  I  did  not 
care  two  straws  for  her,  but  I  thought  it  would 
please  me  to  have  a  little  revenge.  I  looked  at  her 
a  moment.  I  made  up  my  mind  ;  I  went  to  her  and 
bowed  most  ceremoniously. 

"  Donna  Giulia,  behold  the  moth ! "  I  had  used 
the  simile  before,  but  not  to  her,  so  it  did  not  matter. 

She  looked  at  me  undecidedly,  not  quite  knowing 
how  to  take  me. 

"  May  I  offer  you  my  arm,"  I  said,  as  blandly  as  I 
could. 

She  smiled  a  little  awkwardly  and  took  it. 

"  How  beautiful  the  countess  is  to-night  !  "  I  said. 
"  Every  one  will  fall  in  love  with  her.'*  I  knew  she 
hated  Caterina,  a  sentiment  which  the  great  lady 
returned  with  vigour.  "  I  would  not  dare  say  it  to 
another;  but  I  know  you  are  never  jealous:  she  is 
indeed  like  the  moon  among  the  stars/' 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  l6l 

"The  idea  does  not  seem  too  new/*  she  said,  coldly. 

"  It  is  all  the  more  comprehensible.  I  am  thinking 
of  writing  a  sonnet  on  the  theme." 

"I  imagined  it  had  been  done  before;  but  the 
ladies  of  Forli  will  doubtless  be  grateful  to  you." 

She  was  getting  cross ;  and  I  knew  by  experience 
that  when  she  was  cross  she  always  wanted  to  cry. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  angry  with  me,"  I  said. 

"No,  it  is  you  who  are  angry  with  me,"  she 
answered,  rather  tearfully. 

"  I  ?     Why  should  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  You  have  not  forgiven  me  for—  " 

I  wondered  whether  the  conscientious  Giorgio  had 
had  another  attack  of  morality,  and  ridden  off  into 
the  country. 

"My  dear  lady,"  I  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  "I 
assure  you  that  I  have  forgiven  you  entirely.  After 
all,  it  was  not  such  a  very  serious  matter." 

"  No  ?  "     She  looked  at  me  with  a  little  surprise. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  You  were  quite  right  in  what  you  did.  Those 
things  have  to  finish  some  time  or  other,  and  it  really 
does  not  so  much  matter  when." 

"  I  was  afraid  I  had  hurt  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

The  scene  came  to  my  mind ;  the  dimly  lit  room, 
the  delicate  form  lying  on  the  couch,  cold  and  in- 
different, while  I  was  given  over  to  an  agony  of 


1 62  THE   MAKI2\TG    OF  A    SAINT. 

despair.  I  remembered  the  glitter  of  the  jewelled 
ring  against  the  white  hand.  I  would  have  no 
mercy. 

"My  dear  Giulia,  — you  will  allow  me  to  call  you 
Giulia  ? " 

She  nodded. 

"  My  dear  Giulia,  I  was  a  little  unhappy  at  first, 
I  acknowledge,  but  one  gets  over  those  things  so 
quickly,  —  a  bottle  of  wine  and  a  good  sleep  :  they 
are  like  bleeding  to  a  fever." 

"  You  were  unhappy  ?  " 

"  Naturally ;  one  is  always  rather  put  out  when 
one  is  dismissed.  One  would  prefer  to  have  done 
the  breaking  oneself." 

"  It  was  a  matter  of  pride  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  confess  to  it." 

"  I  did  not  think  so  at  the  time." 

I  laughed. 

"  Oh,  that  is  my  excited  way  of  putting  things.  I 
frightened  you ;  but  it  did  not  really  mean  any- 
thing." 

She  did  not  answer.     After  awhile  I  said  : 

"  You  know,  when  one  is  young,  one  should  make 
the  most  of  one's  time.  Fidelity  is  a  stupid  virtue, 
unphilosophical  and  extremely  unfashionable." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Simply  this  ;  you  did  not  particularly  love  me, 
and  I  did  not  particularly  love  you." 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  163 

"  Oh ! " 

"We  had  a  passing  fancy  for  one  another,  and, 
that  satisfied,  there  was  nothing  more  to  keep  us 
together.  We  should  have  been  very  foolish  not  to 
break  the  chain ;  if  you  had  not  done  so,  I  should 
have  done  so.  With  your  woman's  intuition,  you 
saw  that  and  forestalled  me !  " 

Again  she  did  not  answer. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  had  been  in  love  with  me,  or  I 
with  you,  it  would  have  been  different.  But  as  it 
was  —  " 

"  I  see  my  cousin  Violante  in  the  corner  there ; 
will  you  lead  me  to  her  ? " 

I  did  as  she  asked,  and  as  she  was  bowing  me  my 
dismissal,  I  said : 

"We  have  had  a  very  pleasant  talk,  and  we  are 
quite  good  friends,  are  we  not  ? " 

"  Quite ! " 

I  drew  a  long  breath  as  I  left  her.  I  hoped  I  had 
hurt ;  I  hoped  I  had  mutilated  her.  I  wished  I  could 
have  thought  of  things  to  say  that  would  have  cut 
her  to  the  heart.  I  was  quite  indifferent  to  her,  but 
when  I  remembered,  —  I  hated  her. 

I  knew  every  one  in  Forli  by  now,  and  as  I  turned 
away  from  Giulia  I  had  no  lack  of  friends  with  whom 
to  talk.  The  rooms  became  more  crowded  every 
moment.  The  assembly  was  the  most  brilliant  that 
Forli  had  ever  seen ;  and,  as  the  evening  wore  on, 


164  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

the  people  became  more  animated  ;  a  babel  of  talk 
drowned  the  music,  and  the  chief  topic  of  conversa- 
tion was  the  wonderful  beauty  of  Caterina.  She 
was  bubbling  over  with  high  spirits  ;  no  one  knew 
what  had  happened  to  make  her  so  joyful,  for  of 
late  she  had  suffered  a  little  from  the  unpopularity 
of  her  husband,  and  a  sullen  look  of  anger  had  re- 
placed the  old  smiles  and  graces.  But  to-night  she 
was  herself  again.  Men  were  standing  around  talk- 
ing to  her,  and  one  heard  a  shout  of  laughter  from 
them  as  every  now  and  then  she  made  some  witty 
repartee ;  and  her  conversation  gained  another  charm 
from  a  sort  of  soldierly  bluntness  which  people  re- 
membered in  Francesco  Sforza,  and  which  she  had 
inherited.  People  also  spoke  of  the  cordiality  of 
Girolamo  towards  our  Checco ;  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  with  him,  arm  in  arm,  talking  affec- 
tionately; it  reminded  the  onlookers  of  the  time 
when  they  had  been  as  brothers  together.  Caterina 
occasionally  gave  them  a  glance  and  a  little  smile  of 
approval ;  she  was  evidently  well  pleased  with  the 
reconciliation. 

I  was  making  my  way  through  the  crowd,  watch- 
ing the  various  people,  giving  a  word  here  and  there, 
or  a  nod,  and  I  thought  that  life  was  really  a  very 
amusing  thing.  I  felt  mightily  pleased  with  myself, 
and  I  wondered  where  my  good  friend  Claudia  was  ; 
I  must  go  and  pay  her  my  respects. 


THE   MAKING   OF  A    SAINT.  165 

«  Filippo ! " 

I  turned,  and  saw  Scipione  Moratini  standing  by 
his  sister,  with  a  number  of  gentlemen  and  ladies, 
most  of  them  known  to  me. 

"Why  are  you  smiling  so  contentedly ? "  he  said. 
"  You  look  as  if  you  had  lost  a  pebble  and  found  a 
diamond  in  its  place/' 

"  Perhaps  I  have  ;  who  knows  ? " 

At  that  moment  I  saw  Ercole  Piacentini  enter  the 
room  with  his  wife ;  I  wondered  why  they  were  so 
late.  Claudia  was  at  once  seized  upon  by  one  of  her 
admirers,  and,  leaving  her  husband,  sauntered  off  on 
the  proffered  arm.  Ercole  came  up  the  room  on  his 
way  to  the  count.  His  grim  visage  was  contorted 
into  an  expression  of  amiability,  which  sat  on  him 
with  an  ill  grace. 

"This  is  indeed  a  day  of  "rejoicing,"  I  said;  "even 
the  wicked  ogre  is  trying  to  look  pleasant." 

Giulia  gave  a  little  silvery  laugh.  I  thought  it 
forced. 

"  You  have  a  forgiving  spirit,  dear  friend,"  she 
said,  accenting  the  last  word  in  recollection  of  what 
I  had  said  to  her.  "  A  truly  Christian  disposition  !  " 

"  Why  ? "  I  asked,  smiling. 

"  I  admire  the  way  in  which  you  have  forgiven 
Ercole  for  the  insults  he  has  offered  you ;  one  does 
not  often  find  a  gentleman  who  so  charitably  turns 
his  other  cheek  to  the  smiter !  " 


1 66  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

I  laughed  within  myself;  she  was  trying  to  be 
even  with  me.  I  was  glad  to  see  that  my  darts  had 
taken  good  effect.  Scipione  interposed,  for  what  his 
sister  had  said  was  sufficiently  bitter. 

"  Nonsense,  Giulia  !  "  he  said.  "  You  know  Filippo 
is  the  last  man  to  forgive  his  enemies  until  the  breath 
is  well  out  of  their  bodies ;  but  circumstances  —  " 

Giulia  pursed  up  her  lips  into  an  expression  of 
contempt. 

"Circumstances.  I  was  surprised,  because  I  re- 
membered the  vigour  with  which  Messer  Filippo  had 
vowed  to  revenge  himself.'* 

"  Oh,  but  Messer  Filippo  considers  that  he  has 
revenged  himself  very  effectively,"  I  said. 

"  How  ? " 

"There  are  more  ways  of  satisfying  one's  honour 
than  by  cutting  a  hole  in  a  person's  chest." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Filippo?"  said  Scipione. 

"  Did  you  not  see  as  he  passed  ? " 

"Ercole?     What?" 

"Did  you  not  see  the  adornment  of  his  noble 
head,  the  elegant  pair  of  horns  ? " 

They  looked  at  me  not  quite  understanding ;  then 
I  caught  sight  of  Claudia,  who  was  standing  close  to  us. 

"  Ah,  I  see  the  diamond  I  have  found  in  place  of 
the  pebble  I  have  lost.  I  pray  you  excuse  me." 

Then  as  they  saw  me  walk  towards  Claudia  they 
understood,  and  I  heard  a  burst  of  laughter.  I  took 


THE  MAKING   OF  A  SAINT.  l6/ 

my  lady's  hand  and,  bowing  deeply,  kissed  it  with 
the  greatest  fervour.  I  glanced  at  Giulia  from  the 
corner  of  my  eyes  and  saw  her  looking  down  on 
the  ground,  with  a  deep  blush  of  anger  on  her  face. 
My  heart  leapt  for  joy  to  think  that  I  had  returned 
something  of  the  agony  she  had  caused  me. 

The  evening  grew  late,  and  the  guests  began  to 
go.  Checco,  as  he  passed  me,  asked  : 

"  Are  you  ready  ? " 

"  Yes  !  "  I  said,  accompanying  him  to  Girolamo  and 
the  countess  to  take  our  leave. 

"  You  are  very  unkind,  Checco/'  said  the  countess. 
"  You  have  not  come  near  me  the  whole  evening." 

"  You  have  been  so  occupied,"  he  answered. 

"But  I  am  not  now,"  she  replied,  smiling. 

"  The  moment  I  saw  you  free  I  came  to  you." 

"  To  say  good-bye." 

"  It  is  very  late." 

"  No,  surely ;  sit  down  and  talk  to  me." 

Checco  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  I,  seeing  he  meant 
to  stay  longer,  sauntered  off  again  in  search  of  friends. 
The  conversation  between  Checco  and  the  countess 
was  rather  hindered  by  the  continued  leave-takings, 
as  the  people  began  to  go  away  rapidly,  in  groups. 
I  sat  myself  down  in  a  window  with  Matteo,  and  we 
began  comparing  notes  of  our  evening ;  he  told  me 
of  a  new  love  to  whom  he  had  discovered  his  passion 
for  the  first  time. 


1 68  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Fair  wind,  foul  wind  ? "  I  asked,  laughing. 

"  She  pretended  to  be  very  angry,"  he  said,  "  but 
she  allowed  me  to  see  that  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst  she  would  not  permit  me  to  break  my  heart." 

I  looked  out  into  the  room  and  found  that  every 
one  had  gone,  except  Ercole  Piacentini,  who  was  talk- 
ing to  the  count  in  undertones. 

"  I  am  getting  so  sleepy,"  said  Matteo.  We  went 
forward  to  the  countess,  who  said,  as  she  saw  us 
come : 

"  Go  away,  Matteo !  I  will  not  have  you  drag 
Checco  away  yet ;  we  have  been  trying  to  talk  to  one 
another  for  the  last  half  hour,  and  now  that  we  have 
the  chance  at  last  I  refuse  to  be  disturbed." 

"  I  would  not  for  worlds  rob  Checco  of  such  pleas- 
ure," said  Matteo  ;  adding  to  me,  as  we  retired  to  our 
window,  "  What  a  nuisance  having  to  wait  for  one's 
cousin  while  a  pretty  woman  is  flirting  with  him  !  " 

"  You  have  me  to  talk  to,  —  what  more  can  you 
want ! " 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you  at  all,"  he  answered, 
laughing. 

Girolamo  was  still  with  Ercole.  His  mobile  eyes 
were  moving  over  the  room,  hardly  ever  resting  on 
Ercole's  face,  but  sometimes  on  us,  more  often  on 
Checco.  I  wondered  whether  he  were  jealous. 

At  last  Checco  got  up  and  said  good  night.  Then 
Girolamo  came  forward. 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  169 

"  You  are  not  going  yet,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to 
speak  with  you  on  the  subject  of  those  taxes." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  mentioned  them. 

"  It  is  getting  so  late,"  said  Checco,  "  and  these 
good  gentlemen  are  tired." 

"  They  can  go  home.     Really,  it  is  very  urgent." 

Checco  hesitated,  and  looked  at  us. 

"We  will  wait  for  you,"  said  Matteo. 

Girolamo's  eyes  moved  about  here  and  there, 
never  resting  a  moment,  from  Checco  to  me,  from 
me  to  Matteo,  and  on  to  his  wife,  and  then  on 
again,  with  extraordinary  rapidity,  —  it  was  quite 
terrifying. 

"  One  would  think  you  were  afraid  of  leaving 
Checco  in  our  hands,"  said  the  countess,  smiling. 

"No,"  returned  Matteo;  "but  I  look  forward  to 
having  some  of  your  attention  now  that  Checco  is 
otherwise  occupied.  Will  you  let  me  languish  ? " 

She  laughed,  and  a  rapid  glance  passed  between 
her  and  the  count. 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  pleased,"  she  said,  "  come  and 
sit  by  me,  one  on  each  side." 

The  count  turned  to  Ercole. 

"Well,  good  night,  my  friend,"  he  said.  "Good 
night ! " 

Ercole  left  us,  and  Girolamo,  taking  Checco's  arm, 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  speaking.  The 
countess  and  Matteo  commenced  a  gay  conversation. 


I/O  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

Although  I  was  close  to  them  I  was  left  alone,  and 
I  watched  the  count.  His  eyes  fascinated  me,  never 
resting,  ceaselessly  moving.  What  could  be  behind 
them  ?  What  could  be  the  man's  thoughts  that  his 
eyes  should  never  rest  ?  They  enveloped  the  person 
they  looked  at,  —  his  head,  every  feature  of  his  face, 
his  body,  his  clothes  ;  one  imagined  there  was  no 
detail  they  had  not  caught ;  it  was  as  if  they  ate  into 
the  very  soul  of  the  man. 

The  two  men  tramped  up  and  down,  talking  ear- 
nestly ;  I  wondered  what  they  were  saying.  At  last 
Girolamo  stopped. 

"  Ah,  well,  I  must  have  mercy  on  you ;  I  shall  tire 
you  to  death.  And  you  know  I  do  not  wish  to  do 
anything  to  harm  you." 

Checco  smiled. 

"Whatever  difficulty  there  has  been  between  us, 
Checco,  you  know  that  there  has  never  on  my  part 
been  any  ill  feeling  towards  you.  I  have  always 
had  for  you  a  very  sincere  and  affectionate  friend- 
ship." 

And  as  he  said  the  words  an  extraordinary  change 
came  over  him.  The  eyes,  the  mobile  eyes,  stopped 
still  at  last ;  for  the  first  time  I  saw  them  perfectly 
steady,  motionless,  like  glass ;  they  looked  fixedly 
into  Checco' s  eyes,  without  winking,  and  their  immo- 
bility was  as  strange  as  their  perpetual  movement, 
and  to  me  it  was  more  terrifying.  It  was  as  if 


THE  MAKING   OF  A    SAINT.  I  7 1 

Girolamo  was  trying  to  see  his  own  image  in  Checco's 
soul. 

We  bade  them  farewell,  and  together  issued  out 
into  the  silence  of  the  night ;  and  I  felt  that  behind 
us  the  motionless  eyes,  like  glass,  were  following  us 
into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WE  issued  out  into  the  silence  of  the  night. 
There  had  been  a  little  rain  during  the  day,  and 
the  air  in  consequence  was  fresh  and  sweet ;  the 
light  breeze  of  the  spring  made  one  expand  one's 
lungs  and  draw  in  long  breaths.  One  felt  the  trees 
bursting  out  into  green  leaves,  and  the  buds  on  the 
plants  opening  their  downy  mantles  and  discovering 
the  flower  within.  Light  clouds  were  wandering 
lazily  along  the  sky,  and  between  them  shone  out 
a  few  dim  stars.  Checco  and  Matteo  walked  in 
front,  while  I  lingered,  enjoying  the  spring  night ; 
it  filled  me  with  a  sweet  sadness,  a  reaction  from 
the  boisterous  joy  of  the  evening,  and  pleasant  by 
the  contrast. 

When  Matteo  fell  behind  and  joined  me,  I  re- 
ceived him  a  little  unwillingly,  disappointed  at  the 
interruption  of  my  reverie. 

"  I  asked  Checco  what  the  count  had  said  to  him 
of  the  taxes,  but  he  would  not  tell  me ;  he  said  he 
wanted  to  think  about  the  conversation." 

172 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  173 

I  made  no  answer,  and  we  walked  on  in  silence. 
We  had  left  the  piazza,  and  were  going  through  the 
narrow  streets  bordered  by  the  tall  black  houses.  It 
was  very  late,  and  there  was  not  a  soul  about ;  there 
was  no  sound  but  that  of  our  own  footsteps,  and  of 
Checco  walking  a  few  yards  in  front.  Between  the 
roofs  of  the  houses  only  a  little  strip  of  sky  could 
be  seen,  a  single  star,  and  the  clouds  floating  lazily. 
The  warm  air  blew  in  my  face,  and  filled  me  with  an 
intoxication  of  melancholy.  I  thought  how  sweet  it 
would  be  to  fall  asleep  this  night,  and  never  again 
to  wake.  I  was  tired,  and  I  wanted  the  rest  of  an 
endless  sleep.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  I  was  startled  by  a  cry. 

I  saw  from  the  shadow  of  the  houses  black  forms 
spring  out  on  Checco.  An  arm  was  raised,  and  a 
glittering  instrument  flashed  in  the  darkness.  He 
staggered  forward. 

"  Matteo,"  he  cried.     «  Help  !  Help  !  " 

We  rushed  forward,  drawing  our  swords.  There 
was  a  scuffle,  three  of  us  against  four  of  them,  a 
flash  of  swords,  a.  cry  from  one  of  the  men,  as  he 
reeled  and  fell  with  a  wound  from  Matteo's  sword. 
Then  another  rush,  a  little  band  of  men  suddenly 
appearing  around  the  corner,  and  Ercole  Piacentini's 
voice,  crying : 

"What  is  it?" 

And  Matteo's  answer : 


174  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Help  us,  Ercole !  I  have  killed  one.  Checco  is 
stabbed." 

"  Ah ! "  a  cry  from  Ercole,  and  with  his  men  he 
rushed  into  the  fray. 

A  few  more  cries,  still  the  flash  of  swords,  the 
fall  of  heavy  bodies  on  the  stones. 

"They  are  done  for ! "  said  Matteo. 

The  shouts,  the  clang  of  metal,  woke  up  the 
neighbours ;  lights  were  seen  at  the  windows,  and 
nightcapped  women  appeared  shrieking ;  doors  were 
thrown  open,  and  men  came  out  in  their  shirts, 
sword  in  hand. 

"What  is  it?     What  is  it?" 

"Checco,  are  you  hurt?'*  asked  Matteo. 

"  No  ;  my  coat  of  mail !  " 

"Thank  God  you  had  it  on !    I  saw  you  stagger/' 

"  It  was  the  blow.  At  first  I  did  not  know 
whether  I  was  hurt  or  not." 

"What  is  it!     What  is  it?" 

The  neighbours  surrounded  us. 

"  They  have  tried  to  murder  Checco !  Checco 
d'Orsi!" 

"  My  God  !     Is  he  safe  ? " 

"  Who  has  done  it  ?  " 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  the  four  men,  each  one 
lying  heaped  up  on  the  ground,  with  the  blood 
streaming  from  his  wounds." 

"  They  are  dead  !  " 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  175 

"Footpads!"  said  Ercole ;  "they  wanted  to  rob 
you,  and  did  not  know  you  were  accompanied." 

"  Footpads !  Why  should  footpads  rob  me  this 
night  ?  "  said  Checco.  "  I  wish  they  were  not  dead." 

"Look,  look!"  said  a  bystander,  "there  is  one 
moving." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  the  man's  mouth 
before  one  of  Ercole's  soldiers  snatched  up  his 
dagger  and  plunged  it  in  the  man's  neck,  shouting : 

"  Bestia !  " 

A  tremor  went  through  the  prostrate  body,  and 
then  it  was  quite  still. 

"You  fool!"  said  Matteo,  angrily.  "Why  did 
you  do  that?" 

"  He  is  a  murderer,"  said  the  soldier. 

"  You  fool,  we  wanted  him  alive,  not  dead.  We 
could  have  found  out  who  hired  him." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Ercole.  "They  are 
common  robbers." 

"  Here  is  the  guard,"  cried  some  one. 

The  guard  came,  and  immediately  there  was  a 
babel  of  explanation.  The  captain  stepped  forward, 
and  examined  the  men  lying  on  the  ground. 

"They  are  all  dead,"  he  said. 

"Take  them  away,"  said  Ercole.  "Let  them  be 
put  in  a  church  till  morning." 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  Checco.  "  Bring  a  light,  and  let  us 
see  if  we  can  recognise  them." 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"  Not  now,  it  is  late.  To-morrow  you  can  do  what 
you  like." 

"To-morrow  it  will  be  later,  Ercole,"  answered 
Checco.  "Bring  a  light." 

Torches  were  brought,  and  thrust  into  the  face  of 
each  dead  man.  Every  one  eagerly  scrutinised  the 
features,  drawn  up  in  their  last  agony 

"  I  don't  know  him." 

Then  to  another. 

"No." 

And  the  other  two  also  were  unknown.  Checco 
examined  the  face  of  the  last,  and  shook  his  head. 
But  a  man  broke  out,  excitedly : 

"  Ah  !  I  know  him." 

A  cry  from  us  all. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  I  know  him.  It  is  a  soldier,  one  of  the  count's 
guard." 

"Ah!"  said  Matteo  and  Checco,  looking  at  one 
another.  "  One  of  the  count's  guard  !  " 

"  That  is  a  lie,"  said  Ercole.  "  I  know  them  all, 
and  I  have  never  seen  that  face  before.  It  is  a  foot- 
pad, I  tell  you." 

"  It  is  not.  I  know  him  well.  He  is  a  member  of 
the  guard." 

"  It  is  a  lie,  I  tell  you." 

"Ercole  is  doubtless  right,"  said  Checco.  "They 
are  common  thieves.  Let  them  be  taken  away. 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  177 

They  have  paid  a  heavy  price  for  their  attempt. 
Good  night,  my  friends.  Good  night,  Ercole,  and 
thanks/1 

The  guard  took  hold  of  the  dead  men  by  the  head 
and  by  the  feet,  and  one  after  another,  in  single  file, 
they  bore  them  off  down  the  dark  street.  We  three 
moved  on,  the  crowd  gradually  melted  away,  and 
everything  again  became  dark  and  silent. 

We  walked  home  side  by  side  without  speaking. 
We  carne  to  the  Palazzo  Orsi,  entered,  walked  up- 
stairs, one  after  the  other,  into  Checco's  study,  lights 
were  brought,  the  door  closed  carefully,  and  Checco 
turned  around  to  us. 

"Well?" 

Neither  I  nor  Matteo  spoke.  Checco  clenched  his 
fist,  and  his  eyes  flashed,  as  he  hissed  out : 

"The  curl" 

We  all  knew  the  attempt  was  the  count's.  .  .  . 

"  By  God !  I  am  glad  you  are  safe/'  said  Matteo. 

"  What  a  fool  I  was  to  be  taken  in  by  his  protesta- 
tions !  I  ought  to  have  known  that  he  would  never 
forget  the  injury  I  had  done  him." 

"  He  planned  it  well/'  said  Matteo. 

"  Except  for  the  soldier,"  I  remarked.  "  He 
should  not  have  chosen  any  one  who  could  be  rec- 
ognised/1 

"Probably  he  was  the  leader.  But  how  well  he 
managed  everything,  keeping  us  after  the  others, 


1/8  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

and  nearly  persuading  Filippo  and  me  to  go  home 
before  you.  Caterina  was  in  the  plot." 

"  I  wonder  he  did  not  defer  the  attempt  when  he 
found  you  would  not  be  alone,"  I  said  to  Checco. 

"  Ke  knows  I  am  never  alone,  and  such  an  oppor- 
tunity would  not  easily  occur  again.  Perhaps  he 
thought  they  could  avoid  you  two,  or  even  murder 
you  as  well." 

"  But  Ercole  and  his  men  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  thinking  about  them.  The 
only  explanation  I  have  is  that  he  placed  them  there 
to  cover  their  flight  if  they  succeeded,  and  if  they 
failed,  or  could  not  escape,  to  kill  them." 

"As,  in  fact,  they  did.  I  thought  I  saw  Ercole 
make  a  sign  to  the  soldier  who  stabbed  the  only 
living  one." 

"  Possibly.  The  idea  was  evidently  to  destroy  all 
witnesses  and  all  opportunity  for  inquiry." 

"Well,"  said  Matteo,  "it  will  show  others  that  it 
is  dangerous  to  do  dirty  work  for  the  Riario." 

"  It  will  indeed  !  " 

"  And  now,  what  is  to  happen  ? " 

Checco  looked  at  him,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  Do  you  still  refuse  to  do  to  Girolamo  as  he  has 
tried  to  do  to  you  ? " 

Checco  answered,  quietly : 

"No!" 

"  Ah  !  "  we  both  cried.     "  Then  you  consent  ?  " 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"  I  see  no  reason  now  for  not  taking  the  law  into 
my  own  hands." 

"  Assassination  ?  "  whispered  Matteo. 

And  Checco  answered,  boldly : 

"  Assassination  !  "  Then,  after  a  pause,  "  It  is  the 
only  way  open  to  me.  Do  you  remember  Lorenzo's 
words  ?  They  have  been  with  me  every  day,  and  I 
have  considered  them  very,  very  deeply:  'Let  Checco 
know  that  it  is  only  the  fool  who  proposes  to  himself 
an  end,  when  he  cannot  or  will  not  attain  it ;  but  the 
man  who  deserves  the  name  of  man  marches  straight 
to  the  goal,  with  clearness  of  mind  and  strength  of 
will.  He  looks  at  things  as  they  are,  putting  aside 
all  vain  appearances,  and  when  his  intelligence  has 
shown  him  the  means  to  his  end,  he  is  a  fool  if  he 
refuses  them,  and  he  is  a  wise  man  if  he  uses  them 
steadily  and  unhesitatingly.'  I  know  the  end,  and 
I  will  attain  it.  I  know  the  means,  and  I  will  use 
them  steadily,  without  hesitation." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  like  that  at  last ! " 
said  Matteo.  "We  shall  have  plenty  to  help  us. 
The  Moratini  will  join  at  once.  Jacopo  Ronchi  and 
Lodovico  Pansecchi  are  so  bitter  against  the  count 
they  will  come  with  us  as  soon  as  they  hear  you 
have  decided  to  kill  the  enemy  of  us  all." 

"You  are  blind,  Matteo.  Do  you  not  see  what 
we  must  do  ?  You  mistake  the  means  for  the  end." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 


180  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  The  death  of  Girolamo  is  only  a  means.  The 
end  is  further  and  higher." 

Matteo  did  not  speak. 

"  I  must  keep  my  hands  clean  from  any  base 
motive.  It  must  not  seem  that  I  am  influenced  by 
any  personal  motive.  Nothing  must  come  from  me. 
The  idea  of  assassination  must  come  from  outside." 

"Whom  do  you — " 

"I  think  Bartolomeo  Moratini  must  propose  it, 
and  I  will  yield  to  his  instances." 

"  Good !  then  I  will  go  to  him." 

"  That  will  not  do,  either.  Neither  you  nor  I  must 
be  concerned  in  it.  Afterwards  it  must  be  clear  to 
all  minds  that  the  Orsi  were  influenced  solely  by  the 
public  welfare.  Do  you  see  ?  I  will  tell  you  how  it 
must  be.  Filippo  must  help  us.  He  must  go  to  Bar- 
tolomeo, and  from  his  great  affection  for  us  talk  of 
our  danger,  and  entreat  Bartolomeo  to  persuade  me 
to  the  assassination.  Do  you  understand,  Filippo  ? " 

"Perfectly!" 

"Will  you  do  it?" 

"I  will  go  to  him  to-morrow." 

"Wait  till  the  news  of  the  attempt  has  spread." 

I  smiled  at  the  completeness  with  which  Checco 
had  arranged  everything ;  he  had  evidently  thought 
it  all  out.  How  had  his  scruples  disappeared  ? 

The  blackness  of  the  night  was  sinking  before  the 
dawn  when  we  bade  one  another  good  night. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

I  SEEMED  to  have  slept  a  bare  half  hour  when  I 
was  awakened  by  a  great  noise  down-stairs.  I  got 
up,  and  looking  out  of  the  window  saw  a  crowd 
gathered  in  the  street  below;  they  were  talking 
and  gesticulating  furiously.  Then  I  remembered 
the  occurrence  of  the  night,  and  I  saw  that  the 
news  had  spread,  and  these  were  citizens  come  to 
gather  details.  I  went  down-stairs,  and  found  the 
courtyard  thronged.  Immediately  I  was  surrounded 
by  anxious  people  asking  for  news.  Very  contrary 
reports  had  circulated ;  some  said  that  Checco  had 
been  killed  outright,  others  that  he  had  escaped, 
while  most  asserted  that  he  was  wounded.  All 
asked  for  Checco. 

"  If  he  is  unhurt,  why  does  he  not  show  himself  ? " 
they  asked. 

A  servant  assured  them  that  he  was  dressing,  and 
would  be -with  them  at  once.  .  .  .  Suddenly  there 
was  a  shout.  Checco  had  appeared  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs.  They  rushed  towards  him,  surrounding  him, 
with  cries  of  joy  ;  they  seized  his  hand,  they  clung  to 

181 


1 82  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

his  legs,  some  of  them  touched  him  all  over  to  see 
that  he  was  indeed  unwounded,  others  kissed  the 
lappets  of  his  coat.  .  .  .  Bartolomeo  Moratini  en- 
tered the  court  with  his  sons,  and  the  people  shrank 
back  as  he  came  forward  and  embraced  Checco. 

"  Thank  God  you  are  saved  !  "  he  said.  "  It  will  be 
an  evil  day  for  Forli  when  anything  happens  to  you." 

The  people  answered  in  shouts.  But  at  that 
moment  another  sound  was  heard  without,  —  a 
long  and  heavy  murmur.  The  people  surround- 
ing the  doorway  looked  out,  and  turned  in  aston- 
ishment to  see  their  neighbours,  pointing  to  the 
street ;  the  murmur  spread.  What  was  it  ? 

"  Make  way  !     Make  way !  " 

A  strident  voice  called  out  the  words,  and  ushers 
pushed  the  people  aside.  A  little  troop  of  men 
appeared  in  the  entrance,  and,  as  they  sank  back, 
there  stepped  forward  the  count.  The  count ! 
Checco  started,  but,  immediately  recovering  him- 
self, advanced  to  meet  his  visitor.  Girolamo  walked 
up  to  him,  and,  taking  him  in  his  arms,  kissed  him 
on  the  cheeks,  and  said  : 

"My  Checco!     My  Checco!" 

We  who  knew,  and  the  others  who  suspected, 
looked  on  with  astonishment. 

"  As  soon  as  I  heard  the  terrible  news  I  rushed  to 
find  you/'  said  the  count.  "Are  you  safe, — quite 
safe  ? " 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  SAtNT.  183 

He  embraced  him  again. 

"  You  cannot  think  what  agony  I  suffered  when  I 
heard  you  were  wounded.  How  glad  I  am  it  was 
not  true !  O  God  in  heaven,  I  thank  thee  for 
my  Checco ! " 

"You  are  very  kind,  my  lord,"  answered  our 
friend. 

"  But  it  is  some  consolation  that  the  miscreants 
have  met  the  end  which  they  deserved.  We  must 
take  steps  to  free  the  town  of  all  such  dangerous 
persons.  What  will  men  say  of  my  rule  when  it  is 
known  that  the  peaceful  citizen  cannot  walk  home 
at  night  without  danger  to  his  life  ?  O  Checco,  I 
blame  myself  bitterly.'* 

"  You  have  no  cause,  my  lord,  but  —  would  it  not 
be  well  to  examine  the  men,  to  see  if  they  are  known 
in  Forli  ?  Perhaps  they  have  associates." 

"  Certainly  ;  the  idea  was  in  my  mind.  Let  them 
be  laid  out  in  the  market-place  so  that  all  may  see 
them." 

"Pardon,  sir,"  said  one  of  his  suite,  "but  they 
were  laid  in  the  Church  of  San  Spirito  last  night, 
and  this  morning  they  have  disappeared." 

Matteo  and  I  looked  at  one  another.  Checco  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  count. 

"Disappeared!  "  cried  the  latter,  displaying  every 
sign  of  impatience.  "  Who  is  responsible  for  this  ? 
Offer  a  reward  for  the  discovery  of  their  bodies,  and 


1 84  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

of  any  accomplices.  I  insist  on  their  being  dis- 
covered ! " 

Shortly  afterwards  he  took  his  leave,  after  re- 
peatedly kissing  Checco,  and  warmly  congratulating 
Matteo  and  myself  on  the  assistance  we  had  given 
to  our  friend.  To  me  he  said  : 

"I  regret,  Messer  Filippo,  that  you  are  not  a 
Forlivese.  I  should  be  proud  to  have  such  a 
citizen." 

Bartolomeo  Moratini  was  still  at  the  Palazzo  Orsi, 
so,  seizing  my  opportunity,  I  took  him  by  the  arm 
and  walked  with  him  to  the  statue  gallery,  where  we 
could  talk  in  peace. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  all  this  ? "  I  said. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Of  course  it  is 
clear  to  all  of  us  that  the  assassination  was  ordered 
by  the  count ;  he  will  persuade  nobody  of  his  inno- 
cence by  his  pretended  concern.  All  the  town  is 
whispering  his  name. 

"  Having  made  a  first  attempt  and  failed,  he  will 
not  hesitate  to  make  a  second,  for  if  he  could  forgive 
the  injury  which  he  has  received  from  Checco,  he 
can  never  forgive  the  injury  which  he  himself  has 
done  him.  And  next  time  he  will  not  fail.'* 

"I  am  terribly  concerned/'  I  said.  "You  know 
the  great  affection  I  have  for  both  the  Orsi." 

He  stopped  and  warmly  shook  my  hand. 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  185 

"  I  cannot  let  Checco  throw  away  his  life  in  this 
way,"  I  said. 

"  What  can  be  done  ?  " 

"Only  one  thing,  and  you  suggested  it.  ... 
Girolamo  must  be  killed." 

"  Ah,  but  Checco  will  never  consent  to  that." 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  I  said,  gravely.  "You  know 
the  delicacy  of  his  conscience." 

"  Yes ;  and  though  I  think  it  excessive,  I  admire 
him  for  it.  In(  these  days  it  is  rare  to  find  a  man 
so  honest  and  upright  and  conscientious  as  Checco. 
But,  Messer  Filippo,  one  must  yield  to  the  ideas  of 
the  age  one  lives  in." 

"  I,  too,  am  convinced  of  his  noble-mindedness,  but 
it  will  ruin  him." 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  sighed  the  old  man,  stroking  his 
beard. 

"But  he  must  be  saved,  in  spite  of  himself.  He 
must  be  brought  to  see  the  necessity  of  killing  the 
count."  I  spoke  as  emphatically  as  I  could. 

"  He  will  never  consent." 

"  He  must  consent ;  and  you  are  the  man  to  make 
him  do  so.  He  would  not  listen  to  anything  that 
Matteo  or  I  said,  but  for  you  he  has  the  greatest 
respect.  I  am  sure  if  any  one  can  influence  him,  it 
is  you." 

"  I  have  some  power  over  him,  I  believe." 

"  Will  you  try  ?     Don't  let  him  suspect  that  Matteo 


1 86  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

or  I  have  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  or  he  will  not 
listen.  It  must  come  solely  from  you.'* 

"I  will  do  my  best." 

"Ah,  that  is  good  of  you.  But  don't  be  discour- 
aged by  his  refusals ;  be  insistent,  for  our  sake. 
And  one  thing  more,  you  know  his  unselfishness ; 
he  would  not  move  his  hand  to  save  himself,  but  if 
you  showed  him  that  it  is  for  the  good  of  others,  he 
could  not  refuse.  Let  him  think  the  safety  of  us  all 
depends  on  him.  He  is  a  man  you  can  only  move 
by  his  feeling  for  others." 

"  I  believe  you,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  will  go  to 
him,  and  I  will  leave  no  argument  unused." 

"I  am  sure  that  your  efforts  will  be  rewarded." 

Here  I  showed  myself  a  perfectly  wise  man,  for  I 
only  prophesied  because  I  knew. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

IN  the  evening  Bartolomeo  returned  to  the  Palace 
and  asked  for  Checco.  At  his  request  Matteo  and  I 
joined  him  in  Checco's  study,  and,  besides,  there  were 
his  two  sons,  Scipione  and  Alessandro.  Bartolomeo 
was  graver  than  ever. 

"  I  have  come  to  you  now,  Checco,  impelled  by  a 
very  strong  sense  of  duty,  and  I  wish  to  talk  with  you 
on  a  matter  of  the  greatest  importance.'* 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Firstly,  are  you  convinced  that  the  attempt  on 
your  life  was  plotted  by  Girolamo  Riario  ? " 

"  I  am  sorry  for  his  sake,  but —  I  am." 

"  So  are  we  all,  absolutely.  And  what  do  you  in- 
tend to  do  now  ? " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?     Nothing  !  " 

"The  answer  is  not  nothing.  You  have  some- 
thing to  do." 

"And  that  is?" 

"To  kill  Girolamo  before  he  has  time  to  kill  you." 

Checco  started  to  his  feet. 

"They  have  been  talking  to  you,  —  Matteo  and 
187 


1 88  THE  MAKING   OF  A    SAINT. 

Filippo.  It  is  they  who  have  put  this  in  your  head. 
I  knew  it  would  be  suggested  again. " 

"  Nothing  has  given  me  the  idea  but  the  irresist- 
ible force  of  circumstances/* 

"  Never  !     I  will  never  consent  to  that." 

"  But  he  will  kill  you." 

"I  can  die!" 

"It  will  be  the  ruin  of  your  family.  What 
will  happen  to  your  wife  and  children  if  you  are 
dead  ? " 

"  If  need  be,  they  can  die,  too.  No  one  who  bears 
the  name  of  Orsi  fears  death." 

"You  cannot  sacrifice  their  lives  in  cold  blood." 

"I  cannot  kill  a  fellow  man  in  cold  blood.  Ah, 
my  friend,  you  don't  know  what  is  in  me.  I  am  not 
religious ;  I  have  never  meddled  with  priests ;  but 
something  in  my  heart  tells  me  not  to  do  this  thing. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is,  —  conscience  or  honour,  — 
but  it  is  speaking  clearly  within  me." 

He  had  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  was  speaking 
very  earnestly.  We  followed  his  eyes  and  saw  them 
resting  on  a  crucifix. 

"No,  Bartolomeo,"  he  said,  "one  cannot  forget 
God.  He  is  above  us  always,  always  watching  us  ; 
and  what  should  I  say  to  him  with  the  blood  of  that 
man  on  my  hands  ?  You  may  say  what  you  like, 
but,  believe  me,  it  is  best  to  be  honest  and  straight- 
forward, and  to  the  utmost  of  one's  ability  to  carry 


T&&  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

out  the  doctrines  which  Christ  has  left  us,  and  upon 
which  he  set  the  seal  with  the  blood  of  his  hands 
and  feet  and  the  wound  in  his  side/' 

Bartolomeo  looked  at  me  as  if  it  were  hopeless  to 
attempt  anything  against  such  sentiments.  But  I 
signed  him  energetically  to  go  on ;  he  hesitated.  It 
would  be  almost  tragic  if  he  gave  the  matter  up 
before  Checco  had  time  to  surrender.  However,  he 
proceeded : 

"  You  are  a  good  man,  Checco,  and  I  respect  you 
deeply  for  what  you  have  said.  But  if  you  will  not 
stir  to  save  yourself,  think  of  the  others. " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Checco,  starting  as  if 
from  a  dream. 

"  Have  you  the  right  to  sacrifice  your  fellow  men  ? 
The  citizens  of  Forli  depend  on  you/' 

"Ah,  they  will  easily  find  another  leader.  Why, 
you  yourself  will  be  of  greater  assistance  to  them 
than  I  have  ever  been.  How  much  better  will  they 
be  in  your  strong  hands  than  with  me  !  " 

"  No,  no  !  You  are  the  only  man  who  has  power 
here.  You  could  not  be  replaced." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  more  than  I  am  doing  ?  I  do 
not  seek  to  leave  Forli ;  I  will  stay  here  and  protect 
myself  as  much  as  I  can.  I  cannot  do  more." 

"  O  Checco,  look  at  their  state.  It  cannot  con- 
tinue. They  are  ground  down  now  ;  the  count  must 
impose  these  taxes,  and  what  will  be  their  condition 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT, 

then  ?  The  people  are  dying  in  their  misery,  and  the 
survivors  hold  happy  those  who  die.  How  can  you 
look  on  and  see  all  this  ?  And  you,  you  know 
Girolamo  will  kill  you ;  it  is  a  matter  of  time,  and 
who  can  tell  how  short  a  time  ?  Perhaps  even  now 
he  is  forging  the  weapon  of  your  death." 

"  My  death  !  My  death  !  "  cried  Checco.  "  All 
that  is  nothing !  " 

"  But  what  will  be  the  lot  of  the  people  when  you 
are  gone  ?  You  are  the  only  curb  on  Riario's  tyranny. 
When  you  are  dead,  nothing  will  keep  him  back. 
And  when  once  he  has  eased  his  path  by  murder  he 
will  not  fail  to  do  so  again.  We  shall  live  under 
perpetual  terror  of  the  knife.  Oh,  have  mercy  on 
your  fellow  citizens  !  " 

"  My  country  !  "  said  Checco.     "  My  country  !  " 

"You  cannot  resist  this.  For  the  good  of  your 
country,  you  must  lead  us  on." 

"And  if  my  soul  —  " 

"  It  is  for  your  country.  Ah,  Checco,  think  of 
us  all.  Not  for  ourselves  only,  but  for  our  wives, 
our  innocent  children,  we  beg  you,  we  implore. 
Shall  we  go  down  on  our  knees  to  you  ? " 

"O  my  God,  what  shall  I  do?"  said  Checco, 
extremely  agitated. 

"  Listen  to  my  father,  Checco ! "  said  Scipione. 
"  He  has  right  on  his  side." 

"  Oh,  not  you,  too !     Do  not  overwhelm  me.     I 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  igi 

feel  you  are  all  against  me.  God  help  me !  I  know 
it  is  wrong,  but  I  feel  myself  wavering.'* 

"  Do  not  think  of  yourself,  Checco  ;  it  is  for  others, 
for  our  liberty,  our  lives,  our  all,  that  we  implore 
you." 

"You  move  me  terribly.  You  know  how  I  love 
my  country,  and  how  can  I  resist  you,  appealing  on 
her  behalf ! " 

"  Be  brave,  Checco  !  "  said  Matteo. 

"  It  is  the  highest  thing  of  all  that  we  ask  you," 
added  Bartolomeo.  "  Man  can  do  nothing  greater. 
We  ask  you  to  sacrifice  yourself,  even  your  soul, 
maybe,  for  the  good  of  us  all." 

Checco  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  groaned 

"  O  God  !  O  God  !  " 

Then,  with  a  great  sigh,  he  rose  and  said  : 

"Be  it  as  you  will.  .  .  .  For  the  good  of  my 
country ! " 

"Ah,  thanks,  thanks  !  " 

Bartolomeo  took  him  in  his  arms  and  kissed  him 
on  both  cheeks.  Then,  suddenly,  Checco  tore  him- 
self away. 

"  But  listen  to  this,  all  of  you.  I  have  consented, 
and  now  you  must  let  me  speak.  I  swear  that  in 
this  thing  I  have  no  thought  of  myself.  If  I  alone 
were  concerned,  I  would  not  move ;  I  would  wait  for 
the  assassin's  knife  calmly.  I  would  even  sacrifice 
my  wife  and  children,  and  God  knows  how  dearly  I 


1 92  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

love  them  !  I  would  not  stir  a  finger  to  save  myself. 
And  I  swear,  by  all  that  is  most  holy  to  me,  that  I 
am  actuated  by  no  base  motive,  no  ambition,  no 
thought  of  self,  no  petty  revenge.  I  would  willingly 
forgive  Girolamo  everything.  Believe  me,  my  friends, 
I  am  honest.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  am  only  doing 
this  for  the  welfare  of  the  men  I  love,  for  the  sake  of 
you  all,  and  —  for  liberty." 

They  warmly  pressed  his  hands. 

"  We  know  it,  Checco,  we  believe  it.  You  are  a 
great  and  a  good  man." 

A  little  later  we  began  to  discuss  the  ways  and 
means.  Every  one  had  his  plan,  and  to  it  the  others 
had  the  most  conclusive  objections.  We  all  talked 
together,  each  one  rather  annoyed  at  the  unwilling- 
ness of  the  others  to  listen  to  him,  and  thinking  how 
contemptible  their  ideas  were  beside  his  own.  Checco 
sat  silent.  After  awhile  Checco  spoke  : 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me  ?  " 

We  held  our  tongues. 

"First  of  all,"  he  said,  "we  must  find  out  who  is 
with  us,  and  who  is  against  us." 

"Well,"  interrupted  Scipione,  "there  are  the  two 
soldiers,  Jacopo  Ronchi  and  Lodovico  Pansecchi ; 
they  are  furious  with  the  count,  and  said  to  me  a 
long  while  since  that  they  would  willingly  kill 
him." 

"  Our  six  selves  and  those  two  make  eight." 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  1 93 

"  Then  there  are  Pietro  Albanese,  and  Paglianino, 
and  Marco  Scorsacana." 

They  were  devoted  adherents  of  the  house  of 
Orsi,  and  could  be  trusted  to  follow  the  head  of  the 
family  to  the  bottomless  pit. 

"  Eleven,"  counted  Bartolomeo. 

"And  then  —  '* 

Each  mentioned  a  name,  till  the  total  was  brought 
to  seventeen. 

"  Who  else  ?  "  asked  Matteo. 

"That  is  enough,"  said  Checco.  "It  is  as  foolish 
to  have  more  than  necessary  as  to  have  less.  Now, 
once  more,  who  are  they  ? " 

The  names  were  repeated.  They  were  all  known 
enemies  of  the  count,  and  most  of  them  related  to 
the  Orsi. 

"  We  had  better  go  to  them  separately  and  talk  to 
them." 

"  It  will  want  care  !  "  said  Bartolomeo. 

"  Oh,  they  will  not  be  backward.  The  first  word 
will  bring  their  adhesion." 

"Before  that,"  said  Checco,  "we  must  make  all 
arrangements.  Every  point  of  the  execution  must 
be  arranged,  and  to  them  nothing  left  but  the  per- 
formance." 

"Well,  my  idea  is  —  " 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  listen  to  me,"  said  Checco. 
"  You  have  been  talking  of  committing  the  deed  in 


194  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

church,  or  when  he  is  out  walking.  Both  of  those 
ways  are  dangerous,  for  he  is  always  well  surrounded, 
and  in  the  former,  one  has  to  remember  the  feeling 
of  horror  which  the  people  have  for  sacrilege.  Wit- 
ness Galeazzo  in  Milan  and  the  Medici  in  Florence. 
One  is  always  wise  to  respect  the  prejudices  of  the 
mob.  .  .  ." 

"  What  do  you  propose  ? " 

"  After  the  midday  meal  the  —  our  friend  is  in 
the  habit  of  retiring  to  a  private  room  while  his 
servants  dine.  He  is  then  almost  alone.  I  have 
often  thought  it  would  be  an  excellent  opportunity 
for  an  assassin ;  I  did  not  know  it  would  be  myself 
to  take  the  opportunity." 

He  paused  and  smiled  at  the  pleasantness  of  the 
irony. 

"Afterwards  we  shall  raise  the  town,  and  it  is  well 
that  as  many  of  our  partisans  as  possible  be  present. 
The  best  day  for  that  is  a  market-day,  when  they 
will  come  in,  and  we  shall  have  no  need  of  specially 
summoning  them,  and  thus  giving  rise  to  suspicion." 

Checco  looked  at  us  to  see  what  we  thought  of 
his  idea;  then,  as  if  from  an  afterthought,  he  added: 

"  Of  course,  this  is  all  on  the  spur  of  the  moment." 

It  was  well  he  said  that,  for  I  was  thinking  how 
elaborately  everything  was  planned.  I  wondered 
how  long  he  had  the  scheme  in  his  head. 

We  found  nothing  to  say  against  it. 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  1 95 

"  And  who  will  do  the  actual  deed  ? " 

"  I  will !  "  answered  Checco,  quietly. 

«  You ! " 

"  Yes,  alone.     I  will  tell  you  your  parts  later/1 

"  And  when  ?  " 

"  Next  Saturday.     That  is  the  first  market-day." 

"  So  soon  !  "  We  were  all  surprised  ;  it  was  only 
five  days  off,  it  gave  us  very  little  time  to  think.  It 
was  terribly  near.  Alessandro  voiced  our  feelings. 

"  Does  that  give  us  enough  time  ?  Why  not 
Saturday  week  ?  There  are  many  needful  prepara- 
tions.'' 

"There  are  no  needful  preparations.  You  have 
your  swords  ready ;  the  others  can  be  warned  in  a 
few  hours.  I  wish  it  were  to-morrow/' 

"  It  is  —  it  is  very  soon/' 

"There  is  less  danger  of  our  courage  failing 
meanwhile.  We  have  our  goal  before  us,  and  we 
must  go  to  it  straight,  with  clearness  of  mind  and 
strength  of  will." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  As  we 
separated,  one  of  the  Moratini  asked  : 

"About  the  others,  shall  we  —  " 

"  You  can  leave  everything  to  me.  I  take  all  on 
my  hands.  Will  you  three  come  here  to  play  a 
game  of  chess  on  Friday  night,  at  ten  ?  Our  affairs 
will  occupy  us  so  that  we  shall  not  meet  in  the 
interval.  I  recommend  you  to  go  about  as  much  as 


196  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

possible,  and  let  yourselves  be  seen  in  all  assemblies 
and  parties.  .  .  ." 

Checco  was  taking  his  captaincy  in  earnest.  He 
would  allow  no  contradiction,  and  no  swerving  from 
the  path  he  had  marked  out,  --  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment. 

We  had  four  days  in  which  to  make  merry  and 
gather  the  roses ;  after  that,  who  knows  ?  We 
might  be  dangling  from  the  Palace  windows  in  an 
even  line,  suspended  by  elegant  hempen  ropes ; 
or  our  heads  might  be  decorating  spearheads,  and 
our  bodies  God  knows  where.  I  suggested  these 
thoughts  to  Matteo,  but  I  found  him  singularly 
ungrateful.  Still,  he  agreed  with  me  that  we  had 
better  make  the  most  of  our  time,  and,  as  it  ac- 
corded with  Checco's  wishes,  we  were  able  to  go 
to  the  devil  from  a  sense  of  duty.  I  am  sure 
Claudia  never  had  a  lover  more  ardent  than  myself 
during  these  four  days ;  but,  added  to  my  duties 
towards  that  beautiful  creature,  were  routs  and 
banquets,  drinking-parties,  gaming-parties,  where  I 
plunged  heavily,  in  my  uncertainty  of  the  future, 
and  consequently  won  a  fortune.  Checco  had  taken 
on  his  own  shoulders  all  preparations,  so  that  Matteo 
and  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy  ourselves ;  and 
that  we  did.  The  only  sign  I  had  that  Checco  had 
been  working  was  a  look  of  intelligence  given  me  by 
one  or  two  of  those  whose  names  had  been  men- 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

tioned  in  Checco's  study.  Jacopo  Ronchi,  taking 
leave  of  me  on  the  Thursday  night,  said : 

"We  shall  meet  to-morrow. "  * 

"  You  are  coming  to  play  chess,  I  think,"  I  said, 
smiling. 

When,  at  the  appointed  hour,  Matteo  and  I  found 
ourselves  again  in  Checco's  study,  we  were  both 
rather  anxious  and  nervous.  My  heart  was  beating 
quite  painfully,  and  I  could  not  restrain  my  impa- 
tience. I  wished  the  others  would  come.  Gradually 
they  made  their  way  in,  and  we  shook  hands  quietly, 
rather  mysteriously,  with  an  air  of  schoolboys  meet- 
ing together  in  the  dark  to  eat  stolen  fruit.  It 
might  have  been  comic,  if  our  mind's  eye  had  not 
presented  us  with  so  vivid  a  picture  of  a  halter. 

Checco  began  to  speak  in  a  low  voice,  slightly 
trembling;  his  emotion  was  real  enough  this  time, 
and  he  did  all  he  could  to  conceal  it. 

"  My  very  dear  and  faithful  fellow  citizens,"  he  be- 
gan, "  it  appears  that  to  be  born  in  Forli,  and  to  live 
in  it  in  our  times,  is  the  very  greatest  misfortune  with 
which  one  can  be  born  or  with  which  one  can  live." 

I  never  heard  such  silence  as  that  among  the 
listeners.  It  was  awful.  Checco's  voice  sank  lower 
and  lower,  but  yet  every  word  could  be  distinctly 
heard.  The  tremor  was  increasing. 

"  Is  it  necessary  that  birth  and  life  here  should  be 
the  birth  and  life  of  slaves  ?  Our  glorious  ancestors 


198  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

never  submitted  to  this  terrible  misfortune.  They 
were  free,  and  in  their  freedom  they  found  life.  But 
this  is  a  living  death.  ..." 

He  recounted  the  various  acts  of  tyranny  which 
had  made  the  count  hateful  to  his  subjects,  and  he 
insisted  on  the  insecurity  in  which  they  lived. 

"You  all  know  the  grievous  wrongs  I  have  suf- 
fered at  the  hands  of  the  man  whom  I  helped  to 
place  on  the  throne.  But  these  wrongs  I  freely  for- 
give. I  am  filled  only  with  devotion  to  my  country 
and  love  to  my  fellow  men.  If  you  others  have  pri- 
vate grievances,  I  implore  you  to  put  them  aside,  and 
think  only  that  you  are  the  liberators  from  oppres- 
sion of  all  those  you  love  and  cherish.  Gather  up 
to  your  hearts  the  spirit  of  Brutus,  when,  for  the 
sake  of  Freedom,  he  killed  the  man  whom  above  all 
others  he  loved." 

He  gave  them  the  details  of  the  plot ;  told  them 
what  he  would  do  himself,  and  what  they  should  do, 
and  finally  dismissed  them. 

"Pray  to  God  to-night,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "that 
he  will  look  with  favour  upon  the  work  which  we 
have  set  ourselves,  and  implore  him  to  judge  us 
by  the  purity  of  our  intentions  rather  than  by  the 
actions  which,  in  the  imperfection  of  our  knowledge, 
seem  to  us  the  only  means  to  our  end." 

We  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  retired  as 
silently  as  we  had  come. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

MY  sleep  was  troubled,  and  when  I  awoke  the 
next  morning  the  sun  had  only  just  risen. 

It  was  Saturday,  the  I4th  of  April,  1488. 

I  went  to  my  window  and  saw  a  cloudless  sky, 
brilliantly  yellow  over  in  the  east,  and  elsewhere 
liquid  and  white,  hardening  gradually  into  blue. 
The  rays  came  dancing  into  my  rcom,  and  in  them 
incessantly  whirled  countless  atoms  of  dust,  Through 
the  open  window  blew  the  spring  wind,  laden  with  the 
scents  of  the  country,  the  blossoms  of  the  fruit-trees, 
the  primroses,  and  violets.  I  had  never  felt  so  young 
and  strong  and  healthy.  What  could  one  not  do  on 
such  a  day  as  this  !  I  went  into  Matteo's  room,  and 
found  him  sleeping  as  calmly  as  if  this  were  an 
ordinary  day  like  any  other. 

"  Rise,  thou  sluggard  !  "  I  cried. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  were  both  ready,  and  we 
went  to  Checco.  We  found  him  seated  at  a  table 
polishing  a  dagger. 

"  Do  you  remember,  in  Tacitus/'  he  said,  smiling 
pleasantly,  "how  the  plot  against  Nero  was  dis- 

199 


200  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAWT. 

covered  by  one  of  the  conspirators  giving  his  dagger 
to  his  freedman  to  sharpen  ?  Whereupon  the  freed- 
man  became  suspicious,  and  warned  the  Emperor." 

"  The  philosophers  tell  us  to  rise  on  the  mistakes 
of  others,"  I  remarked,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  One  reason  for  my  affection  towards  •  you, 
Filippo,"  he  answered,  "is  that  you  have  nice  moral 
sentiments,  and  a  pleasant  moral  way  of  looking  at 
things." 

He  held  out  his  dagger  and  looked  at  it.  The 
blade  was  beautifully  damaskeened,  the  hilt  be- 
jewelled. 

"  Look,"  he  said,  showing  me  the  excellence  of 
the  steel,  and  pointing  out  the  maker's  name.  Then, 
meditatively,  "I  have  been  wondering  what  sort  of 
blow  would  be  most  effective  if  one  wanted  to  kill 
a  man." 

"You  can  get  most  force,"  said  Matteo,  "by 
bringing  the  dagger  down  from  above  your  head,  — 
thus." 

"  Yes ;  but  then  you  may  strike  the  ribs,  in  which 
case  you  would  not  seriously  injure  your  friend." 

"  You  can  hit  him  in  the  neck." 

"The  space  is  too  small,  and  the  chin  may  get 
in  the  way.  On  the  other  hand,  a  wound  in  the 
large  vessels  of  that  region  is  almost  immediately 
fatal." 

"It    is    an    interesting    subject,"    I    said.     "My 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  2OI 

opinion  is,  that  the  best  of  all  blows  is  an  underhand 
one,  ripping  up  the  stomach." 

I  took  the  dagger  and  showed  him  what  I  meant. 

"  There  are  no  hindrances  in  the  way  of  bones ; 
it  is  simple  and  certainly  fatal." 

"Yes,"  said  Checco,  "but  not  immediately!  My 
impression  is  that  the  best  way  is  between  the 
shoulders.  Then  you  strike  from  the  back,  and 
your  victim  can  see  no  uplifted  hand  to  warn  him, 
and,  if  he  is  very  quick,  enable  him  to  ward  the 
blow." 

"  It  is  largely  a  matter  of  taste,"  I  answered, 
shrugging  my  shoulders.  "  In  these  things  a  man 
has  to  judge  for  himself  according  to  his  own  idio- 
syncrasies." 

After  a  little  more  conversation  I  proposed  to 
Matteo  that  we  should  go  out  to  the  market-place 
and  see  the  people. 

"Yes,  do!"  said  Checco,  "and  I  will  go  and  see 
my  father." 

As  we  walked  along,  Matteo  told  me  that  Checco 
had  tried  to  persuade  his  father  to  go  away  for  a 
while,  but  that  he  had  refused,  as  also  had  his  wife. 
I  had  seen  old  Orso  d'Orsi  once  or  twice ;  he  was 
very  weak  and  decrepit ;  he  never  came  down-stairs, 
but  stayed  in  his  own  rooms  all  day,  by  the  fireside, 
playing  with  his  grandchildren.  Checco  was  in  the 
habit  of  going  to  see  him  every  day,  morning  and 


202  THE   MAKING   OF  A    SAINT. 

evening,  but  to  the  rest  of  us  it  was  as  if  he  did  not 
exist.     Checco  was  complete  master  of  everything. 

The  market-place  was  full  of  people.  Booths  were 
erected  in  rows,  and  on  the  tables  the  peasant  women 
had  displayed  their  wares :  vegetables  and  flowers, 
chickens,  ducks,  and  all  kinds  of  domestic  fowls, 
milk,  butter,  eggs  ;  and  other  booths  with  meat  and 
oil  and  candles.  And  the  sellers  were  a  joyful  crew, 
decked  out  with  red  and  yellow  handkerchiefs,  great 
chains  of  gold  around  their  necks,  and  spotless  head- 
dresses ;  they  were  standing  behind  their  tables,  with 
a  scale  on  one  hand  and  a  little  basin  full  of  coppers 
on  the  other,  crying  out  to  one  another,  bargaining, 
shouting  and  joking,  laughing,  quarrelling.  Then 
there  were  the  purchasers,  who  walked  along  looking 
at  the  goods,  picking  up  things  and  pinching  them, 
smelling  them,  tasting  them,  examining  them  from 
every  point  of  view.  And  the  sellers  of  tokens  and 
amulets  and  charms  passed  through  the  crowd  crying 
out  their  wares,  elbowing,  cursing  when  some  one 
knocked  against  them.  Gliding  in  and  out,  between 
people's  legs,  under  the  barrow  wheels,  behind  the 
booths,  wrere  countless  urchins,  chasing  one  another 
through  the  crowd,  unmindful  of  kicks  and  cuffs, 
pouncing  on  any  booth  of  which  the  proprietor  had 
turned  his  back,  seizing  the  first  thing  they  could  lay 
hands  on,  and  scampering  off  with  all  their  might. 
And  there  was  a  conjurer  with  a  gaping  crowd,  a 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  203 

quack  extracting  teeth,  a  ballad  singer.  Everywhere 
was  noise  and  bustle  and  life. 

"  One  would  not  say  on  the  first  glance  that  these 
people  were  miserably  oppressed  slaves,"  I  said, 
maliciously. 

"You  must  look  beneath  the  surface/'  replied 
Matteo,  who  had  begun  to  take  a  very  serious  view 
of  things  in  general.  I  used  to  tell  him  that  he 
would  have  a  call  some  day  and  end  up  as  a  shaven 
monk. 

"  Let  us  amuse  ourselves/'  I  said,  taking  Matteo  by 
the  arm,  and  dragging  him  along  in  search  of  prey. 
We  fixed  on  a  seller  of  cheap  jewelry,  —  a  huge 
woman,  with  a  treble  chin  and  a  red  face  dripping 
with  perspiration.  We  felt  quite  sorry  for  her,  and 
went  to  console  her. 

"  It  is  a  very  cold  day/'  I  remarked  to  her,  where- 
upon she  bulged  out  her  cheeks  and  blew  a  blast  that 
nearly  carried  me  away. 

She  took  up  a  necklace  of  beads  and  offered  it  to 
Matteo  for  his  lady-love.  We  began  to  bargain, 
offering  her  just  a  little  lower  than  she  asked,  and 
then,  as  she  showed  signs  of  coming  down,  made  her 
a  final  offer  a  little  lower  still.  At  last  she  seized  a 
broom  and  attacked  us,  so  that  we  had  to  fly  precipi- 
tately. 

I  had  never  felt  in  such  high  spirits.  I  offered  to 
race  Matteo  in  every  way  he  liked,  —  riding,  running, 


2O4  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

and  walking,  —  but  he  refused,  brutally  telling  me 
that  I  was  frivolous.  Then  we  went  home.  I  found 
that  Checco  had  just  been  hearing  mass,  and  he  was 
as  solemn  and  silent  as  a  hangman.  I  went  about 
lamenting  that  I  could  get  no  one  to  talk  to  me,  and 
at  last  took  refuge  with  the  children,  who  permitted 
me  to  join  in  their  games,  so  that,  at  "  hide-and-seek  " 
and  "  blind  man's  buff,"  I  thoroughly  amused  myself 
till  dinner-time.  We  ate  together,  and  I  tried  not  to 
be  silenced,  talking  the  greatest  nonsense  I  could 
think  of  ;  but  the  others  sat  like  owls  and  did  not 
listen,  so  that  I,  too,  began  to  feel  depressed.  .  .  . 

The  frowns  of  the  others  infected  me,  and  the  dark 
pictures  that  were  before  their  eyes  appeared  to  mine  ; 
my  words  failed  me,  and  we  all  three  sat  gloomily. 
I  had  started  with  an  excellent  appetite,  but  again 
the  others  influenced  me,  and  I  could  not  eat.  We 
toyed  with  our  food,  wishing  the  dinner  over.  I 
moved  about  restlessly,  but  Checco  was  quite  still, 
leaning  his  face  on  his  hand,  occasionally  raising  his 
eyes  and  fixing  them  on  Matteo  or  me.  One  of  the 
servants  dropped  some  plates  ;  we  all  started  at  the 
sound,  and  Checco  uttered  an  oath  ;  I  had  never 
heard  him  swear  before.  He  was  so  pale  I  wondered 
if  he  were  nervous.  I  asked  the  time  ;  still  two  hours 
before  we  could  start.  How  long  would  they  take  to 
pass !  I  had  been  longing  to  finish  dinner,  so  that  I 
might  get  up  and  go  away.  I  felt  an  urgent  need  for 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  SAINT.  20$ 

walking,  but  when  the  meal  was  over  a  heaviness 
came  to  my  legs  and  I  could  do  nothing  but  sit  and 
look  at  the  other  two.  Matteo  filled  his  tankard 
and  emptied  it  several  times,  but  after  awhile,  as  he 
reached  over  for  the  wine,  he  saw  Checco's  eyes 
fixed  on  the  flagon,  with  a  frown  on  his  forehead, 
and  the  curious  raising  of  one  corner  of  the  mouth, 
which  was  a  sign  he  was  displeased.  Matteo  with- 
drew his  hand  and  pushed  his  mug  away ;  it  rolled 
over  and  fell  on  the  floor.  We  heard  the  church 
bell  strike  the  hour ;  it  was  three  o'clock.  Would 
it  never  be  time !  We  sat  on  and  on.  At  last 
Checco  rose,  and  began  walking  up  and  down  the 
room.  He  called  for  his  children.  They  came,  and 
he  began  talking  to  them  in  a  husky  voice,  so  that 
they  could  scarcely  understand  him.  Then,  as  if 
frightened  of  himself,  he  took  them  in  his  arms,  one 
after  the  other,  and  kissed  them  convulsively,  passion- 
ately, as  one  kisses  a  woman  ;  and  he  told  them  to 
go.  He  stifled  a  sob.  We  sat  on  and  on.  I  counted 
the  minutes.  I  had  never  lived  so  long  before.  It 
was  awful.  .  .  . 

At  last ! 

It  was  half  past  three ;  we  got  up  and  took  our 
hats. 

"  Now,  my  friends  !  "  said  Checco,  drawing  a  breath 
of  relief,  "  our  worst  troubles  are  over/* 

We  followed  him  out  of  the  house.     I  noticed  the 


2O6  THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

jewelled  hilt  of  his  dagger,  and  every  now  and  then  I 
saw  him  put  his  hand  to  it  to  see  that  it  was  really 
there.  We  passed  along  the  streets,  saluted  by  the 
people.  A  beggar  stopped  us,  and  Checco  threw  him 
a  piece  of  gold. 

"  God  bless  you  !  "  said  the  man. 

And  Checco  thanked  him,  fervently. 

We  walked  along  the  narrow  streets  in  the  shade, 
but  as  we  turned  a  corner  the  sun  came  full  on  our 
faces.  Checco  stopped  a  moment  and  opened  his 
arms,  as  if  to  receive  the  sunbeams  in  his  embrace, 
and,  turning  to  us  with  a  smile,  he  said  : 

"  A  good  omen  !  " 

A  few  more  steps  brought  us  to  the  piazza. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

AMONG  the  members  of  the  count's  household 
was  Fabrizio  Tornielli,  a  cousin  of  the  Orsi  on  the 
mother's  side.  Checco  had  told  him  that  he  wished 
to  talk  with  Girolamo  about  the  money  he  owed 
him,  and  thought  the  best  opportunity  would  be 
when  the  count  was  alone  after  the  meal  which 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  at  three.  But  as  he 
was  very  anxious  to  find  the  count  entirely  by 
himself,  he  begged  his  cousin  to  make  him  a  sign 
when  the  time  came.  .  .  .  Fabrizio  had  agreed, 
and  we  had  arranged  to  stroll  about  the  piazza  till 
we  saw  him.  We  came  across  our  friends  ;  to  me 
they  looked  different  from  every  one  else.  I  won- 
dered that  people  as  they  passed  did  not  stop  them 
and  ask  what  was  disturbing  them. 

At  last,  one  of  the  Palace  windows  was  opened, 
and  we  saw  Fabrizio  Tornielli  standing  in  it,  looking 
down  on  the  piazza.  Our  opportunity  had  come. 
My  heart  beat  so  violently  against  my  chest  that  I 
had  to  put  my  hand  to  it.  Besides  Matteo  and  my- 
self, Marco  Scorsacana,  Lodovico  Pansecchi,  and 

207 


2O8  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

Scipione  Moratini  were  to  accompany  Checco  into 
the  Palace.  Checco  took  my  arm  and  we  walked 
slowly  up  the  steps,  while  the  others  followed  on 
our  heels.  The  head  of  the  Orsi  had  a  key  of  gold, 
that  is  to  say,  he  was  admitted  to  the  ruler's  presence 
whenever  he  presented  himself,  and  without  formality. 
The  guard  at  the  door  saluted  as  we  passed,  making 
no  question.  We  ascended  to  Girolamo's  private 
apartments,  and  were  admitted  by  a  servant.  We 
found  ourselves  in  an  anteroom,  in  one  wall  of  which 
was  a  large  doorway,  closed  by  curtains.  .  .  . 

"  Wait  for  me  here/'  said  Checco.  "  I  will  go  in 
to  the  count." 

The  servant  raised  the  curtain  ;  Checco  entered, 
and  the  curtain  fell  back  behind  him. 

Girolamo  was  alone,  leaning  against  the  sill  of  an 
open  window.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  kindly. 

"  Ah,  Checco,  how  goes  it  ? " 

"Well;  and  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  am  always  well  when  I  get  among  my 
nymphs." 

He  waved  his  hand  to  the  frescoes  on  the  walls. 
They  were  the  work  of  a  celebrated  artist,  and  rep- 
resented nymphs  sporting,  bathing,  weaving  gar- 
lands, and  offering  sacrifice  to  Pan ;  the  room  had 
been  christened  the  Chamber  of  the  Nymphs. 

Girolamo  looked  around,  with  a  contented  smile. 

"I  am  glad  everything  is  finished  at  last,"  he  said. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  2OQ 

"Eight  years  ago  the  stones  with  which  the  house 
is  built  had  not  been  hewn  out  of  the  rock,  and 
now  every  wall  is  painted,  everything  is  carved  and 
decorated,  and  I  can  sit  down  and  say,  '  It  is 
finished.' " 

"  It  is  indeed  a  work  to  be  proud  of/'  said  Checco. 

"  You  don't  know  how  I  have  looked  forward  to 
this,  Checco.  Until  now  I  have  always  lived  in 
houses  which  others  had  built,  and  decorated,  and 
lived  in ;  but  this  one  has  grown  up  out  of  my  own 
head  ;  I  have  watched  every  detail  of  its  construction, 
and  I  feel  it  mine  as  I  have  never  felt  anything  mine 
before." 

He  paused  a  minute,  looking  at  the  room. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  I  have  lost  in  its  completion, 
for  it  gave  me  many  pleasant  hours  to  watch  the 
progress.  The  hammer  of  the  carpenter,  the  click 
of  the  trowel  on  the  brick,  were  music  to  my  ears. 
There  is  always  a  melancholy  in  everything  that 
is  finished ;  with  a  house,  the  moment  of  its  comple- 
tion is  the  commencement  of  its  decay.  Who  knows 
how  long  it  will  be  before  these  pictures  have  moul- 
dered off  the  walls,  and  the  very  walls  themselves 
are  crumbling  to  dust  ?  " 

"  As  long  as  your  family  reigns  in  Forli  your  pal- 
ace will  preserve  its  splendour." 

"  Yes ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  as  the  family  will 
preserve  the  house,  so  the  house  will  preserve  the 


210  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

family.  I  feel  myself  firmer  and  more  settled  in 
Forli ;  this  seems  like  a  rock  to  which  my  fortunes 
can  cling.  But  I  am  full  of  hope.  I  am  still  young 
and  strong.  I  have  a  good  thirty  years  of  life  before 
me,  and  what  can  one  not  do  in  thirty  years  ?  And 
then,  Checco,  my  children !  What  a  proud  day  it 
will  be  for  me  when  I  can  take  my  son  by  the  hand 
and  say  to  him,  « You  are  a  full-grown  man,  and  you 
are  capable  of  taking  up  the  sceptre  when  death 
takes  it  from  my  hand/  And  it  will  be  a  good 
present  I  shall  leave  him.  My  head  is  full  of  plans. 
Forli  shall  be  rich  and  strong,  and  its  prince  shall 
not  need  to  fear  his  neighbours ;  and  the  Pope  and 
Florence  shall  be  glad  of  his  friendship." 

He  looked  into  space,  as  if  he  saw  the  future. 

"  But,  meanwhile,  I  am  going  to  enjoy  life.  I 
have  a  wife  whom  I  love,  a  house  to  be  proud  of,  two 
faithful  cities.  What  more  can  I  want  ? " 

"You  are  a  fortunate  man/*  said  Checco. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Checco  looked  at  him 
steadily.  The  count  turned  away,  and  Checco  put 
his  hand  to  his  dagger.  He  followed  him.  As  he 
was  approaching,  the  count  turned  again,  with  a  jewel 
that  he  had  just  taken  from  the  window-sill. 

"  I  was  looking  at  this  stone  when  you  came,"  he 
said.  "  Bonifazio  has  brought  it  from  Milan,  but  I 
am  afraid  I  cannot  afford  it.  It  is  very  tempting." 

He  handed  it  to  Checco  to  look  at. 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  2 1 1 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  better  than  the  one  you  have 
on  your  neck,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  jewel,  which 
was  set  in  a  medallion  of  gold,  hanging  from  a  heavy 
chain. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Girolamo.  "It  is  much  finer. 
Look  at  the  two  together." 

Checco  approached  the  stone  he  held  in  his  hand 
to  the  other,  and,  as  he  did  so,  with  his  other  fingers 
pressed  against  the  count's  chest.  He  wanted  to 
see  whether  by  any  chance  he  wore  a  coat  of  mail ; 
he  did  not  mean  to  make  the  same  mistake  as  the 
count.  .  .  .  He  thought  there  was  nothing ;  but  he 
wished  to  make  quite  sure. 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  he  said,  "but  the  setting 
shows  off  the  other,  so  that  at  first  sight  it  seems 
more  brilliant.  And  no  wonder,  for  the  chain  is  a 
masterpiece." 

He  took  it  up,  as  if  to  look  at  it,  and,  as  he  did  so, 
put  his  hand  on  the  count's  shoulder.  He  was  cer- 
tain now. 

"  Yes,"  said  Girolamo,  "  that  was  made  for  me  by 
the  best  goldsmith  in  Rome.  It  is  really  a  work  of 
art." 

"  Here  is  your  stone,"  said  Checco,  handing  it  to 
him,  but  awkwardly,  so  that  when  Girolamo  wanted 
to  take  it,  it  fell  between  their  hands.  Instinctively 
he  bent  down  to  catch  it.  In  a  moment  Checco 
drew  his  dagger,  and  buried  it  in  the  count's  back. 


212  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

He  staggered  forward,  and  fell  in  a  heap  on  his 
face. 

«  O  God  ! "  he  cried,  « I  am  killed." 

It  was  the  first  thing  we  had  heard  outside.  We 
heard  the  cry,  the  heavy  fall.  The  servant  rushed 
to  the  curtain. 

"  They  are  killing  my  master ! "  he  cried. 

"  Be  quiet,  you  fool !  "  I  said,  seizing  his  head 
from  behind,  and,  with  my  hands  on  his  mouth,  drag- 
ging him  backwards.  At  the  same  moment  Matteo 
drew  his  dagger,  and  pierced  the  man's  heart.  He 
gave  a  convulsive  leap  into  the  air,  and  then,  as  he 
fell,  I  pushed  him  so  that  he  rolled  to  one  side. 

Immediately  afterward  a  curtain  was  lifted,  and 
Checco  appeared,  leaning  against  the  door-post.  He 
was  as  pale  as  death,  and  trembling  violently.  He 
stood  silent  for  a  moment,  open-mouthed^  so  that  I 
thought  he  was  about  to  faint ;  then,  with  an  effort, 
he  said,  in  a  hoarse,  broken  voice  : 

"  Gentlemen,  we  are  free  !  " 

A  cry  burst  from  us  : 

"  Liberty ! " 

Lodovico  Pansecchi  asked  : 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

A  visible  shudder  passed  through  Checco,  as  if  he 
had  been  struck  by  an  icy  wind.  He  staggered  to  a 
chair  and  groaned; 

"O  God!" 


THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  213 

"  I  will  go  and  see,"  said  Pansecchi,  lifting  the 
curtain  and  entering. 

We  stood  still,  waiting  for  him.  We  heard  a 
heavy  sound,  and,  as  he  appeared,  he  said  : 

"  There  is  no  doubt  now." 

There  was  blood  on  his  hands.  Going  up  to 
Checco,  he  handed  him  the  jewelled  dagger. 

"Take  this.  It  will  be  more  use  to  you  than 
where  you  left  it." 

Checco  turned  away  in  disgust. 

"  Here,  take  mine,"  said  Matteo.  "  I  will  take 
yours.  It  will  bring  me  good  luck." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth,  when  a 
step  was  heard  outside.  Scipione  looked  out  cau- 
tiously. 

"  Andrea  Framonti,"  he  whispered. 

"  Good  luck,  indeed  !  "  said  Matteo. 

It  was  the  captain  of  the  guard.  He  was  in  the 
habit  of  coming  every  day  about  this  hour  to  receive 
the  password  from  the  count.  We  had  forgotten 
him.  He  entered. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  gentlemen  !  Are  you  waiting 
to  see  the  count  ? " 

He  caught  sight  of  the  corpse  lying  against  the 
wall. 

"  Good  God  !  what  is  this  ?     What  is  —  " 

He  looked  at  us,  and  stopped  suddenly.  We  had 
surrounded  him. 


214  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Treason  !  "  he  cried.     "  Where  is  the  count  ? " 

He  looked  behind  him;  Scipione  and  Matteo  barred 
the  door. 

"Treason  ! "  he  shouted,  drawing  his  sword. 

At  the  same  moment  we  drew  ours  and  rushed  for 
him.  He  parried  a  few  of  our  blows,  but  we  were 
too  many,  and  he  fell,  pierced  with  a  dozen  wounds. 

The  sight  of  the  fray  had  a  magical  effect  on 
Checco.  We  saw  him  standing  up,  drawn  to  his 
full  height,  his  cheeks  aflame,  his  eyes  flashing. 

"  Good,  my  friends,  good  !  Luck  is  on  our  side," 
he  said.  "  Now  we  must  look  alive  and  work.  Give 
me  my  dagger,  Matteo  ;  it  is  sacred,  now.  It  has 
been  christened  in  blood  with  the  name  of  Liberty. 
Liberty,  my  friends,  Liberty !  " 

We  flourished  our  swords,  and  shouted : 

"Liberty!" 

"  Now,  you,  Filippo,  take  Lodovico  Pansecchi  and 
Marco,  and  go  to  the  apartments  of  the  countess  ; 
tell  her  that  she  and  her  children  are  prisoners,  and 
let  no  one  enter  or  leave.  Do  this  at  any  cost.  .  .  . 
The  rest  of  us  will  go  out  and  rouse  the  people.  I 
have  twenty  servants  armed  whom  I  told  to  wait  in 
the  piazza. ;  they  will  come  and  guard  the  Palace  and 
give  you  any  help  you  need.  Come  !  " 

I  did  not  know  the  way  to  the  countess's  chamber, 
but  Marco  had  been  a  special  favourite,  and  knew 
well  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  Palace.  He  guided  me 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  21$ 

to  the  door,  where  we  waited.  In  a  few  minutes  we 
heard  cries  in  the  piazza,  and  shouts  of  "  Liberty." 
There  came  a  tramp  of  feet  up  the  stairs.  It  was 
Checco's  armed  servants.  Some  of  them  appeared 
where  we  were.  I  sent  Marco  to  lead  the  others. 

"  Clear  the  Palace  of  all  the  servants.  Drive  them 
out  into  the  piazza,  and  if  any  one  resists,  kill  him." 

Marco  nodded,  and  went  off.  The  door  off  the 
countess's  apartments  was  opened,  and  a  lady  said : 

"  What  is  this  noise  ? " 

But  immediately  she  saw  us,  she  gave  a  shriek  and 
ran  back.  Then,  leaving  two  men  to  guard  the  door, 
I  entered  with  Pansecchi  and  the  rest.  The  countess 
came  forward. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ? "  she  said,  angrily. 
"  Who  are  you  ?  What  are  these  men  ?  " 

" Madam,"  I  said,  "the  count,  your  husband,  is 
dead,  and  I  have  been  sent  to  take  you  prisoner." 

The  women  began  to  weep  and  wail,  but  the 
countess  did  not  move  a  muscle.  She  appeared 
indifferent  to  my  intelligence. 

"  You,"  I  said,  pointing  to  the  ladies  and  women 
servants,  "  you  are  to  leave  the  Palace  at  once.  The 
countess  will  be  so  good  as  to  remain  here  with  her 
children." 

Then  I  asked  where  the  children  were.  The 
women  looked  at  their  mistress,  who  said,  shortly : 

"  Bring  them  !  " 


2l6  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

I  signed  to  Pansecchi,  who  accompanied  one  of  the 
ladies  out  of  the  room,  and  reappeared  with  the  three 
little  children. 

"Now,  madam,"  I  said,  "will  you  dismiss  these 
ladies  ? " 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment,  hesitating.  The  cries 
from  the  piazza  were  growing  greater ;  it  was  becom- 
ing a  roar  that  mounted  to  the  Palace  windows. 

"You  can  leave  me,"  she  said. 

They  broke  again  into  shrieks  and  cries,  and 
seemed  disinclined  to  obey  the  order.  I  had  no 
time  to  waste. 

"  If  you  do  not  go  at  once,  I  shall  have  you  thrown 
out !  " 

The  countess  stamped  her  foot. 

"  Go,  when  I  tell  you  !  Go  !  "  she  said.  "  I  want 
no  crying  and  screaming." 

They  moved  to  the  door  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
trampling  on  one  another,  bemoaning  their  fate. 
At  last  I  had  the  room  free. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  "you  must  allow  two  soldiers  to 
remain  in  the  room." 

I  locked  the  two  doors  of  the  chamber,  mounted 
a  guard  outside  each,  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

I  WENT  out  into  the  piazza.  It  was  full  of  men, 
but  where  was  the  enthusiasm  we  had  expected,  the 
tumult,  the  shouts  of  joy?  Was  not  the  tyrant 
dead  ?  But  they  stood  there  dismayed,  confounded, 
like  sheep.  .  .  .  And  was  not  the  tyrant  dead  ?  I 
saw  partisans  of  Checco  rushing  through  the  crowd, 
with  cries  of  "  Death  to  all  tyrants,"  and  "  Liberty, 
liberty  !  "  but  the  people  did  not  move.  Here  and 
there  were  men  mounted  on  barrows,  haranguing  the 
people,  throwing  out  words  of  fire  ;  but  the  wind  was 
still,  and  they  did  not  spread.  .  .  .  Some  of  the 
younger  ones  were  talking  excitedly,  but  the  mer- 
chants kept  calm,  seeming  afraid.  They  asked  what 
was  to  happen  now,  —  what  Checco  would  do  ?  Some 
suggested  that  the  town  should  be  offered  to  the 
Pope ;  others  talked  of  Lodovico  Sforza  and  the  ven- 
geance he  would  bring  from  Milan. 

I  caught  sight  of  Alessandro  Moratini. 

"  What  news  ?     What  news  ? " 

"  O  God,  I  don't  know !  "  he  said,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  agony.  "  They  won't  move.  I  thought  they 


21 8  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

would  rise  up  and  take  the  work  out  of  our  hands. 
But  they  are  as  dull  as  stones." 

"And  the  others?"   I  asked. 

"They  are  going  through  the  town  trying  to 
rouse  the  people.  God  knows  what  success  they 
will  have ! " 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  stir  at  one  end  of  the 
square,  and  a  crowd  of  mechanics  surged  in,  headed 
by  a  gigantic  butcher,  flourishing  a  great  meat-axe. 
They  were  crying,  "  Liberty !  "  Matteo  went  towards 
them,  and  began  to  address  them,  but  the  butcher 
interrupted  him,  and  shouted  coarse  words  of  en- 
thusiasm, at  which  they  all  yelled  with  applause. 

Checco  came  on  the  scene,  accompanied  by  his 
servants.  A  small  crowd  followed,  crying : 

"  Bravo,  Checcc  !  bravo  !  " 

As  soon  as  the  mechanics  saw  him,  they  rushed 
towards  him,  surrounding  him  with  cries  and  cheers. 
.  .  .  The  square  was  growing  fuller  every  moment ; 
the  shops  had  been  closed,  and  from  all  quarters 
came  swarming  artisans  and  apprentices.  I  made 
my  way  to  Checco,  and  whispered  to  him : 

"  The  people !  Fire  them,  and  the  rest  will 
follow." 

"A  leader  of  rabble!" 

"  Never  mind,"  I  said.  "  Make  use  of  them. 
Give  way  to  them  now,  and  they  will  do  your 
will.  Give  them  the  body  of  the  count !  " 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  2 19 

He  looked  at  me,  then  nodded,  and  whispered : 

"  Quickly ! " 

I  ran  to  the  Palace,  and  told  Marco  Scorsacana 
what  I  had  come  for.  We  went  into  the  Hall  of  the 
Nymphs  ;  the  body  was  lying  on  its  face,  almost 
doubled  up,  and  the  floor  was  stained  with  a  hor- 
rible stream  of  blood  ;  in  the  back  were  two  wounds. 
Lodovico  had  indeed  made  sure  that  the  count  was 
safe.  .  .  .  We  caught  hold  of  the  body  —  it  was  not 
yet  cold  —  and  dragged  it  to  the  window.  With 
difficulty  we  lifted  it  on  to  the  sill. 

"  Here  is  your  enemy  !  "  I  cried. 

Then  hoisting  him,  we  pushed  him  out,  and  he  fell 
on  the  stones  with  a  great,  dull  thud.  A  mighty 
shout  burst  from  the  mob  as  they  rushed  at  the 
body.  One  man  tore  the  chain  off  his  neck,  but  as 
he  was  running  away  with  it,  another  snatched  at  it. 
In  the  struggle  it  broke,  and  one  got  away  with  the 
chain,  the  other  with  the  jewel.  Then,  with  cries 
of  hate,  they  set  on  the  corpse.  They  kicked  him, 
and  slapped  his  face,  and  spat  on  him.  The  rings 
were  wrenched  off  his  fingers,  his  coat  was  torn 
away ;  they  took  his  shoes,  his  hose ;  in  less  then 
a  minute  everything  had  been  robbed,  and  he  was 
lying  naked,  naked  as  when  he  was  born.  They  had 
no  mercy,  those  people ;  they  began  to  laugh  and 
jeer,  and  make  foul  jokes  about  his  nakedness. 

The    piazza    was    thronged,    and    every    moment 


220  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

people  entered ;  the  women  of  the  lower  classes 
had  come,  joining  their  shrill  cries  to  the  shouts 
of  the  men.  The  noise  was  stupendous,  and  above 
all  rang  the  cries  of  Liberty  and  Death. 

"  The  countess  !     The  countess  !  " 

It  became  the  general  cry,  drowning  the  others, 
and  from  all  quarters. 

"  Where  is  the  countess  ?  Bring  her  out.  Death 
to  the  countess  !  " 

A  cry  went  up  that  she  was  in  the  Palace,  and  the 
shout  became : 

"  To  the  Palace  !     To  the  Palace  !  " 

Checco  said  to  us : 

"  We  must  save  her.  If  they  get  hold  of  her  she 
will  be  torn  to  pieces.  Let  her  be  taken  to  my 
house." 

Matteo  and  Pansecchi  took  all  the  soldiers  they 
could,  and  entered  the  Palace.  In  a  few  minutes 
they  appeared  with  Caterina  and  her  children ;  they 
had  surrounded  her,  and  were  walking  with  drawn 
swords. 

A  yell  broke  from  these  thousands  of  throats,  and 
they  surged  towards  the  little  band.  Checco  shouted 
out  to  them  to  let  her  go  in  peace,  and  they  held 
back  a  little ;  but,  as  she  passed,  they  hissed  and 
cursed,  and  called  her  foul  names.  Caterina  walked 
proudly,  neither  turning  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
no  sign  of  terror  on  her  face,  not  even  a  pallid  cheek. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  221 

She  might  have  been  traversing  the  piazza  amidst 
the  homage  of  her  people.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to 
a  man  that  she  had  jewels  concealed  on  her.  He 
pushed  through  the  guards,  and  put  his  hand  to  her 
bosom.  She  lifted  her  hand,  and  hit  him  in  the  face. 
A  cry  of  rage  broke  from  the  populace,  and  they 
made  a  rush.  Matteo  and  his  men  stopped,  closing 
together,  and  he  said  : 

"  By  God !  I  swear  I  will  kill  any  man  who  comes 
within  my  reach." 

They  shrank  back  frightened>  and,  taking  advan- 
tage of  this,  the  little  band  hurried  out  of  the 
piazza. 

Then  the  people  looked  at  one  another,  waiting 
for  something  to  do,  not  knowing  where  to  begin. 
Their  eyes  were  beginning  to-  flame,  and  their  hands 
to  itch  for  destruction.  Checco  saw  their  feeling, 
and  at  once  pointed  to  the  Palace. 

"  There  are  the  fruits  of  your  labours,  your  money, 
your  jewels,  your  taxes.  Go  and  take  back  your  own. 
There  is  the  Palace.  We  give  you  the  Palace." 

They  broke  into  a  cheer,  a  rush  was  made,  and 
they  struggled  in  by  the  great  doors,  fighting  their 
way  up  the  stairs  in  search  of  plunder,  dispersing 
through  the  splendid  rooms.  .  .  . 

Checco  looked  at  them  disappearing  through  the 
gateway. 

"  Now  we  have  them  at  last." 


222  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  stream  at  the  Palace  gates 
became  double,  for  it  consisted  of  those  coming  out 
as  well  as  of  those  going  in.  The  confusion  became 
greater  and  greater,  and  the  rival  bands  elbowed,  and 
struggled,  and  fought.  The  windows  were  burst 
open  and  things  thrown  out,  —  coverlets,  linen,  cur- 
tains, gorgeous  silks,  Oriental  brocades,  satins,  — 
and  the  women  stood  below  to  catch  them.  Some- 
times there  was  a  struggle  for  possession,  but  the 
objects  were  poured  out  so  fast  that  every  one  could 
be  satisfied.  Through  the  doors  men  could  be  seen 
coming  with  their  arms  full,  their  pockets  bulging, 
and  handing  their  plunder  to  their  wives  to  take 
home,  while  they  themselves  rushed  in  again.  All 
the  little  things  were  taken  first,  and  then  it  was  the 
turn  of  the  furniture.  People  came  out  with  chairs 
or  coffers  on  their  heads,  bearing  them  away  quickly, 
lest  their  claim  should  be  disputed.  Sometimes  the 
entrance  was  stopped  by  two  or  three  men  coming 
out  with  a  heavy  chest,  or  with  the  pieces  of  a  bed- 
stead. Then  the  shouting,  and  pushing,  and  confu- 
sion were  worse  than  ever.  .  .  .  Even  the  furniture 
gave  out  under  the  keen  hands,  and,  looking  around, 
they  saw  that  the  walls  and  floors  were  bare.  But 
there  was  still  something  for  them.  They  made  for 
the  doors  and  wrenched  them  away,  From  the  piazza 
we  saw  men  tear  out  the  window-frames,  —  even 
the  hinges  were  taken,  —  and  they  streamed  out  of 


"IT     WAS     EMPTY     BUT     FOR    A    FEW     RAPACIOUS     MEN,    WHO 
WERE    WANDERING    ABOUT,    LIKE    SCAVENGERS." 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  22$ 

the  Palace  heavily  laden,  their  hands  bloody  from 
the  work  of  destruction. 

All  over  the  town  the  bells  were  ringing,  and  still 
people  surged  into  the  piazza.  Thousands  had  got 
nothing  from  the  Palace,  and  they  cried  out  in  anger 
against  their  companions,  envious  at  their  good  luck. 
Bands  had  formed  themselves,  with  chiefs,  and  they 
were  going  about  exciting  the  others.  Checco  stood 
among  them,  unable  to  restrain  them.  Suddenly 
another  cry  rose  from  a  thousand  throats  : 

"The  Treasury!  " 

And  irresistible  as  the  sea,  they  rushed  to  the 
Gabella.  In  a  few  minutes  the  same  ruin  had  over- 
taken it,  and  it  was  lying  bare  and  empty. 

Scarcely  one  of  them  remained  in  the  piazza.  The 
corpse  was  lying  on  the  cold  stones,  naked,  the  face 
close  to  the  house  in  which  the  living  man  had  taken 
such  pride ;  and  the  house  itself,  with  the  gaping 
apertures  from  the  stolen  windows,  looked  like  a 
building  which  had  been  burnt  with  fire,  so  that 
only  the  walls  remained.  And  it  was  empty  but 
for  a  few  rapacious  men,  who  were  wandering  about, 
like  scavengers,  to  see  whether  anything  had  been 
left  unfound. 

The  body  had  done  its  work,  and  it  could  rest  in 
peace.  Checco  sent  for  friars,  who  placed  it  on  a 
stretcher,  covering  its  nakedness,  and  bore  it  to  their 
church. 


224  THE  MAKING   OF  A    SAINT. 

Night  came,  and  with  it  a  little  peace.  The  tumult 
with  which  the  town  was  filled  quieted  down ;  one 
by  one  the  sounds  ceased,  and  over  the  city  fell  a 
troubled  sleep.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

WE  were  up  betimes.  The  town  was  ours,  except 
the  citadel.  Checco  had  gone  to  the  fortress,  which 
stood  above  the  town,  to  one  side,  and  had  summoned 
the  castellan  to  surrender.  He  had  refused,  as  we 
expected ;  but  we  were  not  much  troubled,  for  we 
had  Caterina  and  her  children  in  our  power,  and  by 
their  means  thought  we  could  get  hold  of  the  castle. 

Checco  had  called  a  meeting  of  the  council,  to 
decide  what  should  be  done  with  the  town.  It  was 
purely  a  measure  of  politeness,  for  he  had  already 
made  up  his  mind,  and  taken  steps  in  accordance. 
With  the  town  so  troubled,  the  citadel  still  in  our 
opponent's  hands,  and  the  armies  of  Lodovico  Moro 
at  Milan,  it  was  hopeless  to  suggest  standing  alone, 
and  Checco  had  decided  to  offer  Forli  to  the  Pope. 
This  would  give  a  protection  against  external  enemies, 
and  would  not  greatly  interfere  with  the  internal  rela- 
tions. The  real  power  would  belong  to  the  chief 
citizen,  and  Checco  knew  well  enough  who  that 
was.  Further,  the  lax  grasp  of  the  Pope  would  soon 
be  loosed  by  death,  and  in  the  confusion  of  a  long 

225 


226  THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

conclave,  and  a  change  of  rulers,  it  would  not  be  im- 
possible to  change  the  state  of  dependence  into  real 
liberty,  and  for  Checco  to  add  the  rights  and  titles  of 
lordship  to  the  power.  On  the  previous  night  he  had 
sent  a  messenger  to  the  Protonotary  Savello,  the 
papal  Governor  of  Cesena,  with  an  account  of  what 
had  happened,  and  the  offer  of  the  town.  Checco 
had  requested  an  immediate  reply,  and  was  expecting 
it  every  minute. 

The  council  was  called  for  ten  o'clock.  At  nine 
Checco  received  Savello's  secret  consent. 

The  president  of  the  council  was  Niccolo  Torni- 
elli,  and  he  opened  the  sitting  by  reminding  his 
hearers  of  their  object,  and  calling  for  their  opinions. 
At  first  no  one  would  speak.  They  did  not  know 
what  was  in  Checco's  mind,  and  they  had  no  wish 
to  say  anything  that  might  be  offensive  to  him. 
The  Forlivesi  are  a  cautious  race !  After  awhile 
an  old  man  got  up  and  timidly  expressed  the  thanks 
of  the  citizens  for  the  freedom  which  Checco  had 
bestowed  upon  them,  suggesting  also  that  he  should 
speak  first.  The  lead  thus  given,  the  worthies  rose, 
one  after  another,  and  said  the  same  things,  with  an 
air  of  profound  originality. 

Then  Antonio  Lassi  stood  up.  It  was  he  who  had 
advised  Girolamo  to  impose  the  taxes  on  the  town, 
and  he  was  known  to  be  a  deadly  enemy  of  Checco. 
The  others  had  been  sufficiently  astonished  when 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

they  saw  him  enter  the  council-chamber,  for  it  was 
thought  that  he  had  left  the  town,  as  Ercole  Pia- 
centini  and  others  of  the  count's  favourites  had 
done.  When  he  prepared  to  speak,  the  surprise 
was  universal. 

"  Our  good  friend,  Niccolo,"  he  said,  "  has  called 
upon  us  to  decide  what  shall  be  done  with  the 
town. 

"Your  thoughts  seem  to  be  inclining  to  one 
foreign  master  or  another.  But  my  thoughts  are 
inclining  to  the  liberty  in  whose  name  the  town 
has  been  won. 

"  Let  us  maintain  the  liberty  which  these  men 
have  conquered  at  the  risk  of  their  lives.  .  .  . 

"Why  should  we  doubt  our  ability  to  preserve 
the  liberty  of  our  ancestors  ?  Why  should  we  think 
that  we,  who  are  descended  from  such  fathers,  born 
from  their  blood,  bred  in  their  houses,  should  have 
degenerated  so  far  as  to  be  incapable  of  seizing  the 
opportunity  which  is  presented  to  us  ? 

"  Let  us  not  fear  that  the  mighty  Monarch,  who 
defends  and  protects  him  who  walks  the  path  of  the 
just,  will  fail  to  give  us  spirit  and  strength  to  intro- 
duce and  firmly  to  implant  in  this  city  the  blessed 
state  of  liberty/' 

At  the  end  of  the  sentence  Antonio  Lassi  paused, 
to  see  the  effect  on  his  auditors. 

He  went  on : 


228  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  But  as  the  example  of  our  Master  has  shown  us 
that  the  shepherd  is  necessary  for  the  preservation 
of  the  flock ;  and  as  he  seems  to  point  out  our 
guardian  by  the  success  which  he  has  granted  to 
his  arms  in  the  extermination  of  the  Wolf,  I  propose 
that  we  surrender  our  liberty  to  the  hands  of  him 
who  is  best  able  to  preserve  it, —  Checco  d'Orsi." 

A  cry  of  astonishment  burst  from  the  councillors. 
Was  this  Antonio  Lassi  ?  They  looked  at  Checco, 
but  he  was  impassive  ;  not  even  the  shadow  of  a 
thought  could  be  read  on  his  face.  They  asked 
themselves  whether  this  was  prearranged,  whether 
Checco  had  bought  his  enemy,  or  whether  it  was  a 
sudden  device  of  Antonio  to  make  his  peace  with 
the  victor.  One  could  see  the  agitation  of  their 
minds.  They  were  tortured ;  they  did  not  know 
what  Checco  thought.  Should  they  speak  or  be 
silent  ?  There  was  a  look  of  supplication  in  their 
faces  which  was  quite  pitiful.  Finally,  one  of  them 
made  up  his  mind,  and  rose  to  second  Antonio 
Lassi's  motion.  Then  others  took  their  courage  in 
both  hands  and  made  speeches  full  of  praise  for 
Checco,  begging  him  to  accept  the  sovereignty. 

A  grave  smile  appeared  on  Checco's  face,  but  it 
disappeared  at  once.  When  he  thought  there  had 
been  sufficient  talking,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  after 
thanking  his  predecessors  for  their  eulogies,  said  : 

"  It  is  true  that  we  have  conquered  the  city  at  the 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  22Q 

risk  of  our  lives ;  but  it  was  for  the  city,  not  for 
ourselves.  .  .  .  No  thought  of  our  own  profit  en- 
tered our  minds,  but  we  were  possessed  by  a  grave 
sense  of  our  duty  towards  our  fellow  men.  Our 
watchwords  were  Liberty  and  the  Commonweal ! 
From  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  thank  Antonio 
Lassi  and  all  of  you  who  have  such  confidence  in 
me  that  you  are  willing  to  surrender  the  town  to 
my  keeping.  In  their  good  opinion  I  find  a  suffi- 
cient reward  for  all  I  have  done.  But,  God  knows, 
I  have  no  desire  to  rule.  I  want  the  love  of  my 
fellow  citizens,  not  the  fear  of  subjects ;  I  look  with 
dismay  upon  the  toils  of  a  ruler.  And  who  would 
believe  in  my  disinterestedness  when  he  saw  me  take 
up  the  sceptre  which  the  lifeless  hand  has  dropped  ? 

"  Forgive  me  ;  I  cannot  accept  your  gift. 

"  But  there  is  one  who  can  and  will.  The  Church 
is  not  wont  to  close  her  breast  to  him  who  seeks 
refuge  beneath  her  sacred  cloak,  and  she  will  pardon 
us  for  having  shaken  from  our  necks  the  hard  yoke 
of  tyranny.  Let  us  give  ourselves  to  the  Holy 
Father  —  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  applause  of  the  coun- 
cillors ;  they  did  not  want  to  hear  further,  but  agreed 
unanimously ;  and  it  was  forthwith  arranged  that  an 
embassy  should  be  sent  to  the  Governor  of  Cesena  to 
make  the  offer.  The  meeting  was  broken  up  amidst 
shouts  of  praise  for  Checco.  If  he  had  been  strong 


230  THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

before,  he  was  ten  times  stronger  now,  for  the  better 
classes  had  been  afraid  of  the  mob  and  angry  that  he 
should  depend  on  them ;  now  they  were  won,  too. 

The  people  knew  that  the  council  was  assembled 
to  consult  on  the  destinies  of  the  town,  and  they 
had  come  together  in  thousands,  outside  the  council 
house.  The  news  was  made  known  to  them  at  once, 
and  when  Checco  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
a  mighty  shout  burst  from  them,  and  they  closed 
around  him  with  cries  and  cheers. 

"  Bravo  !     Bravo  !  " 

He  began  to  walk  homewards,  and  the  crowd 
followed,  making  the  old  gray  streets  ring  with 
their  shouts.  On  each  side  people  were  thronging, 
and  stood  on  tiptoe  to  see  him,  the  men  waving  their 
caps  and  throwing  them  in  the  air,  the  women  madly 
flourishing  handkerchiefs  ;  children  were  hoisted  up 
that  they  might  see  the  great  man  pass,  and  joined 
their  shrill  cries  to  the  tumult.  Then  it  occurred  to 
some  one  to  spread  his  cloak  for  Checco  to  walk  on, 
and  at  once  every  one  followed  his  example,  and  the 
people  pressed  and  struggled  to  lay  their  garments 
before  his  feet.  And  baskets  of  flowers  were  obtained 
and  scattered  before  him,  and  the  heavy  scent  of  the 
narcissi  filled  the  air.  The  shouts  were  of  all  kinds, 
but  at  last  one  arose,  and  gathered  strength,  and 
replaced  the  others,  till  ten  thousand  throats  were 
shouting : 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Pater  Patrice  !     Pater  Patrice  !  " 

Checco  walked  along  with  bare  head,  his  eyes  cast 
down,  his  face  quite  white.  His  triumph  was  so 
great  —  that  he  was  afraid  ! 

The  great  procession  entered  the  street  in  which 
stood  the  Palazzo  Orsi,  and,  at  the  same  moment, 
from  the  gates  of  the  Palace  issued  Checco's  wife 
and  his  children.  They  came  towards  us,  followed 
by  a  troop  of  noble  ladies.  They  met,  and  Checco, 
opening  his  arms,  clasped  his  wife  to  his  breast  and 
kissed  her  tenderly  ;  then,  with  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  the  children  on  each  side,  he  proceeded 
towards  his  house.  If  the  enthusiasm  had  been 
great  before,  now  it  was  ten  times  greater.  The 
people  did  not  know  what  to  do  to  show  their  joy; 
no  words  could  express  their  emotion  ;  they  could 
only  give  a  huge,  deafening  shout : 

"  Pater  Patria  !     Pater  Patrice!  " 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

AFTER  awhile  the  formal  embassy  sent  to  Cesena 
came  back  with  the  message  that  the  Protonotary 
Savello  had  been  filled  with  doubts  as  to  whether  he 
should  accept  the  town  or  no ;  but  seeing  the 
Forlivesi  firm  in  their  desire  to  come  under  the  pa- 
pal rule,  and  being  convinced  that  their  pious 
wish  had  been  inspired  by  the  most  High  Ruler  of 
Kings,  he  had  not  ventured  to  contradict  the  mani- 
fest will  of  Heaven,  and  therefore  would  come  and 
take  possession  of  the  city  in  person. 

Checco  smiled  a  little  as  he  heard  of  the  worthy 
man's  doubts,  and  the  arguments  used  by  the  ambas- 
sadors to  persuade  him  ;  but  he  fully  agreed  with 
Monsignor  Savello's  decision,  thinking  the  reasons 
very  cogent.  .  .  . 

The  protonotary  was  received  with  all  due  honour. 
Savello  was  a  middle-sized,  stout  man,  with  a  great 
round  belly  and  a  fat  red  face,  double-chinned,  and 
a  bull  neck.  He  had  huge  ears  and  tiny  eyes,  like 
pig's  eyes,  but  they  were  very  sharp  and  shrewd. 

232 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  233 

His  eyebrows  were  pale  and  thin,  so  that,  with  the 
enormous  expanse  of  shaven  cheek,  his  face  had  a 
look  of  almost  indecent  nakedness.  His  hair  was 
scanty,  and  his  crown  quite  bald  and  shiny.  He 
was  gorgeously  dressed  in  violet.  After  the  greet- 
ings and  necessary  courtesies,  he  was  informed  of 
the  state  of  things  in  Forli.  He  was  vexed  to  find 
the  citadel  still  in  the  hands  of  the  castellan,  who 
had  been  summoned  with  great  courtesy  to  surren- 
der to  the  papal  envoy,  but  without  any  courtesy  at 
all  had  very  stoutly  declined.  Savello  said  he  would 
speak  to  the  countess  and  make  her  order  the  cas- 
tellan to  open  his  gates.  I  was  sent  forward  to 
inform  Caterina  of  the  last  occurrences,  and  of  the 
protonotary's  desire  for  an  interview. 

The  countess  had  received  apartments  in  the  Orsi 
Palace,  and  it  was  into  one  of  these  rooms  that  the 
good  Savello  was  ushered. 

He  stopped  on  the  threshold,  and  lifting  up  his 
arm  stretched  out  two  fingers,  and,  in  his  thick,  fat 
voice,  said : 

"  The  peace  of  God  be  upon  you  !  " 

Caterina  bowed  and  crossed  herself.  He  went  up 
to  her  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"Madam,  it  has  always  been  my  hope  that  I 
should  some  day  meet  the  lady  whose  fame  has 
reached  me  as  the  most  talented,  most  beautiful, 
and  most  virtuous  of  her  time.  But  I  did  not  think 


234  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

that  the  day  of  our  meeting  would  be  one  of  such 
bitterness  and  woe  !  " 

He  expressed  himself  in  measured  tones,  grave 
and  slow,  and  very  fit  to  the  occasion. 

"  Ah,  lady,  you  do  not  know  the  grief  I  felt  when 
I  was  made  acquainted  with  your  terrible  loss.  I 
knew  your  dear  husband  in  Rome,  and  I  always  felt 
for  him  a  most  profound  affection  and  esteem." 

"  You  are  very  kind  !  "  she  said. 

"  I  can  understand  that  you  should  be  overwhelmed 
with  grief,  and  I  trust  you  do  not  think  my  visit  im- 
portunate. I  have  come  to  offer  you  such  consolation 
as  is  in  my  power  ;  for  is  it  not  the  most  blessed  work 
that  our  Divine  Master  has  imposed  upon  us,  to 
comfort  the  afflicted  ?  " 

"  I  was  under  the  impression  that  you  had  come  to 
take  over  the  city  on  behalf  of  the  Pope." 

"  Ah,  lady,  I  see  that  you  are  angry  with  me  for 
taking  the  city  from  you ;  but  do  not  think  I  do  it  of 
myself.  Ah,  no ;  I  am  a  slave,  I  am  but  a  servant 
of  his  Holiness.  For  my  part,  I  would  have  acted 
far  otherwise,  not  only  for  your  own  merits,  great  as 
they  are,  but  also  for  the  merits  of  the  duke,  your 
brother." 

His  unction  was  most  devout.  He  clasped  his 
hand  to  his  heart  and  looked  up  to  heaven  so 
earnestly  that  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  disappeared 
beneath  the  lids,  and  one  could  only  see  the  whites. 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  235 

In  this  attitude  he  was  an  impressive  picture  of 
morality. 

"  I  beseech  you,  madam,  bravely  to  bear  your  evil 
fortunes.  Do  we  not  know  that  fortune  is  uncertain  ? 
If  the  city  has  been  taken  from  you  it  is  the  will  of 
God,  and  as  a  Christian  you  must,  with  resignation, 
submit  yourself  to  his  decrees.  Remember  that  the 
ways  of  the  Almighty  are  inscrutable.  The  soul  of 
the  sinner  is  purified  by  suffering.  We  must  all  pass 
through  the  fire.  Perhaps  these  misfortunes  will  be 
the  means  of  saving  your  soul  alive.  And  now  that 
this  city  has  returned  to  the  fold  of  the  Master,  — 
for  is  not  the  Holy  Father  the  Vicar  of  Christ  ?  —  be 
assured  that  the  loss  you  have  suffered  will  be  made 
good  to  you  in  the  love  of  his  Holiness,  and  that 
eventually  you  will  receive  the  reward  of  the  sinner 
who  has  repented,  and  sit  amongst  the  elect,  singing 
hymns  of  praise  to  the  glory  of  the  Master  of  all 
things." 

He  paused  to  take  breath.  I  saw  Caterina's 
fingers  convulsively  close  around  the  arm  of  her 
chair ;  she  was  restraining  herself  with  difficulty. 

"  But  the  greatest  grief  of  all  is  the  loss  of  your 
husband,  Girolamo.  Ah,  how  beautiful  is  the  grief 
of  a  widow !  But  it  was  the  will  of  God,  And  what 
has  he  to  complain  of  now  ?  Let  us  think  of  him 
clad  in  robes  of  light,  with  a  golden  harp  in  his 
hands.  Ah,  lady,  he  is  an  angel  in  heaven,  and  we 


236  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

are  miserable  sinners  upon  earth.  How  greatly  to 
be  envied  is  his  lot !  He  was  a  humble,  pious  man, 
and  he  has  his  reward.  Ah  —  " 

But  she  could  hold  back  no  longer.  She  burst 
forth  like  a  fury. 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  stand  before  me,  uttering  these 
hypocrisies  ?  How  dare  you  say  these  things  to  me, 
when  you  are  enjoying  the  fruits  of  his  death  and 
my  misfortune  ?  Hypocrite !  You  are  the  vulture 
feeding  with  the  crows,  and  you  come  and  whine  and 
pray  and  talk  to  me  of  the  will  of  God !  " 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  lifted  them  passionately 
towards  heaven. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  that  my  turn  will  come,  and  then  I 
will  show  you  what  is  the  will  of  God.  Let  them 
take  care ! " 

"  You  are  incensed,  dear  lady,  and  you  know  not 
what  you  say.  You  will  regret  that  you  have  ac- 
cepted my  consolations  with  disdain.  But  I  forgive 
you  with  a  Christian  spirit/' 

"  I  do  not  want  your  forgiveness.  I  despise 
you." 

She  uttered  the  words  like  the  hiss  of  a  serpent. 
Savello's  eyes  sparkled  a  little,  and  his  thin  lips  were 
drawn  rather  thinner  than  before,  but  he  only  sighed, 
and  said,  gently : 

"  You  are  beside  yourself.  You  should  turn  to 
the  Consoler  of  Sorrow.  Watch  and  pray!" 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  237 

"  What  is  it  you  want  with  me  ?  "  she  said,  taking 
no  notice  of  his  remark. 

Savello  hesitated,  looking  at  her.  She  beat  her 
foot  impatiently. 

"  Quick  !  "  she  said.  "  Tell  me,  and  let  me  remain 
in  peace.  I  am  sick  of  you." 

"  I  came  to  offer  you  consolation,  and  to  bid  you 
be  of  good  faith." 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  a  fool  ?  If  you  have  no  fur- 
ther business  with  me,  —  go  !  " 

The  priest  now  had  some  difficulty  in  containing 
himself;  his  eyes  betrayed  him. 

"I  am  a  man  of  peace,  and  I  desire  to  spill  no 
blood.  Therefore  I  wished  to  propose  that  you 
should  come  with  me,  and  summon  the  castellan  to 
give  up  the  citadel,  which  may  be  the  means  of 
avoiding  much  bloodshed,  and  also  of  gaining  the 
thanks  of  the  Holy  Father." 

"  I  will  not  help  you.  Shall  I  aid  you  to  conquer 
my  own  town  ? " 

"  You  must  remember  that  you  are  in  our  hands, 
fair  lady,"  he  answered,  meekly. 

"Well?" 

"  I  am  a  man  of  peace,  but  I  might  not  be  able  to 
prevent  the  people  from  revenging  themselves  on 
you,  for  your  refusal.  It  will  be  impossible  to  hide 
from  them  that  you  are  the  cause  of  the  holding  back 
of  the  citadel." 


238  THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"  I  can  well  understand  that  you  would  hesitate  at 
nothing." 

"  It  is  not  I,  dear  lady  —  " 

"  Ah,  no  ;  you  are  the  servant  of  the  Pope  !  It  is 
the  will  of  God  !  " 

"  You  would  be  wise  to  do  as  we  request." 

There  was  such  a  look  of  ferocity  in  his  face,  that 
one  saw  he  would,  indeed,  hesitate  at  nothing. 
Caterina  thought  a  little.  .  .  . 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  to  my  intense  surprise,  "  1 
will  do  my  best." 

"  You  will  gain  the  gratitude  of  the  Holy  Father, 
and  my  own  thanks." 

"  I  put  an  equal  value  upon  both." 

"  And  now,  madam,  I  will  leave  you.  Take  com 
fort,  and  apply  yourself  to  pious  exercises.  Ir> 
prayer  you  will  find  a  consolation  for  all  your  woes." 

He  raised  his  hand  as  before,  and,  with  the  out- 
stretched fingers,  repeated  the  blessing.  . 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

WE  went  to  the  fortress  in  solemn  procession,  the 
people,  as  we  passed,  mingling  shouts  of  praise  for 
Checco,  with  yells  of  derision  for  Caterina.  She 
walked  on,  with  her  stately  indifference,  and,  when 
the  protonotary  addressed  her,  repelled  him  with 
disdain. 

The  castellan  was  summoned,  and  the  countess 
addressed  him  in  the  words  Savello  had  suggested : 

"  As  Heaven  has  taken  the  count  from  me,  and  also 
the  city,  I  beg  you,  by  the  confidence  I  showed  in 
choosing  you  as  castellan,  to  surrender  this  fortress 
to  the  ministers  of  his  Holiness,  the  Pope." 

There  was  a  light  tinge  of  irony  in  her  voice,  and 
her  lips  showed  the  shadow  of  a  smile. 

The  castellan  replied,  gravely  : 

"  By  the  confidence  you  showed  in  choosing  me  as 
castellan,  I  refuse  to  surrender  this  fortress  to  the 
ministers  of  his  Holiness,  the  Pope.  And  as  Heaven 
has  taken  the  count  from  you,  and  also  the  city,  it 
may  take  the  citadel,  too,  but,  by  God !  madam,  no 
power  on  earth  shall." 

239 


240  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

Caterina  turned  to  Savello,  — 

"What  shall  I  do?" 

"Insist." 

She  solemnly  repeated  her  request,  and  he  solemnly 
made  his  reply. 

"It  is  no  good,"  she  said,  "I  know  him  too  well. 
He  thinks  I  am  speaking  under  compulsion.  He 
does  not  know  that  I  am  acting  of  my  own  will,  for 
the  great  love  I  bear  the  Pope  and  the  Church." 

"We  must  have  the  citadel,"  said  Savello,  emphati- 
cally. "If  we  do  not  get  it,  I  cannot  answer  for 
your  safety." 

She  looked  at  him ;  then  an  idea  seemed  to  occur 
to  her. 

"  Perhaps  if  I  went  in  and  spoke  to  him  he  would 
consent  to  surrender." 

"We  cannot  allow  you  out  of  our  power,"  said 
Checco. 

"You  would  have  my  children  as  hostages." 

"  That  is  true,"  mused  Savello  ;  "  I  think  we  can 
let  her  go." 

Checco  disapproved,  but  the  priest  overruled  him, 
and  the  castellan  was  summoned  again,  and  ordered 
to  admit  the  countess.  Savello  warned  her  : 

"  Remember  that  we  hold  your  children,  and  shall 
not  hesitate  to  hang  them  before  your  eyes  if  - 

"  I  know  your  Christian  spirit,  Monsignor,"  she 
interrupted. 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  24! 

But  when  she  was  inside  she  turned  to  us,  and 
from  the  ramparts  addressed  us  with  mocking  laugh- 
ter. The  fury  which  had  been  boiling  within  her 
burst  out.  She  hurled  at  us  words  of  foul  abuse, 
so  that  one  might  have  thought  her  a  fishwife ; 
she  threatened  us  with  death,  and  every  kind  of 
torture,  in  revenge  for  the  murder  of  her  hus- 
band. .  .  . 

We  stood  looking  up  at  her  with  open  mouths, 
dumbfounded.  A  cry  of  rage  broke  from  the 
people ;  Matteo  uttered  an  oath.  Checco  looked 
angrily  at  Savello,  but  said  nothing.  The  priest 
was  furious;  his  big  red  face  grew  purple,  and  his 
eyes  glistened  like  a  serpent's. 

"  Bastard  !  "  he  hissed.     "  Bastard  !  " 

Trembling  with  anger,  he  ordered  the  children  to 
be  sent  for,  and  he  cried  out  to  the  countess  : 

"  Do  not  think  that  we  shall  hesitate.  Your  sons 
shall  be  hanged  before  your  very  eyes." 

"  I  have  the  means  of  making  more,"  she  replied, 
scornfully. 

She  was  lion-hearted.  I  could  not  help  feeling 
admiration  for  the  extraordinary  woman.  Surely 
she  could  not  sacrifice  her  children  !  And  I  won- 
dered if  a  man  would  have  had  the  courage  to  give 
that  bold  answer  to  Savello's  threats. 

Savello's  expression  had  become  fiendish.  He 
turned  to  his  assistants. 


242  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Let  a  double  scaffold  be  erected  here,  at  once 
and  quickly." 

The  chiefs  of  the  conspiracy  retired  to  a  sheltered 
place,  while  the  mob  gathered  in  the  piazza;  and 
soon  the  buzz  of  many  voices  mingled  with  hammer- 
ing and  the  cries  of  workmen.  The  countess  stood 
above,  looking  at  the  people,  watching  the  gradual 
erection  of  the  scaffold. 

In  a  little  while  its  completion  was  announced. 
Savello  and  the  others  came  forward,  and  the  priest 
once  more  asked  her  whether  she  would  surrender. 
She  did  not  deign  to  answer.  The  two  boys  were 
brought  forward,  —  one  was  nine,  the  other  seven. 
As  the  people  looked  upon  their  youth  a  murmur 
of  pity  passed  through  them.  My  own  heart  began 
to  beat  a  little.  They  looked  at  the  scaffold  and 
could  not  understand ;  but  Cesare,  the  younger, 
seeing  the  strange  folk  around  him  and  the  angry 
faces,  begafi  to  cry.  Ottaviano  was  feeling  rather 
tearful,  too  ;  but  his  superior  age  made  him  ashamed, 
and  he  was  making  mighty  efforts  to  restrain  himself. 
All  at  once  Cesare  caught  sight  of  his  mother,  and 
he  called  to  her.  Ottaviano  joined  him,  and  they 
both  cried  out : 

"  Mother  !     Mother  !  " 

She  looked  at  them,  but  made  not  the  slightest 
motion ;  she  might  have  been  of  stone.  .  .  .  Oh, 
it  was  horrible  ;  she  was  too  hard  ! 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  243 

"Once  more,  I  ask  you,"  said  Savello,  "will  you 
surrender  the  castle  ?  " 

«No,  — no!" 

Her  voice  was  quite  steady,  ringing  clear  as  a 
silver  bell. 

Savello  made  a  sign,  and  two  men  approached 
the  boys.  Then,  suddenly  they  seemed  to  under- 
stand ;  with  a  shriek  they  ran  to  Checco,  and 
falling  at  his  feet,  clasped  his  knees.  Ottaviano 
could  hold  out  no  longer ;  he  burst  into  tears,  and 
his  brother,  at  the  elder's  weakness,  redoubled  his 
own  cries. 

"O  Checco,  don't  let  them  touch  us !  " 

Checco  took  no  notice  of  them  ;  he  looked  straight 
in  front  of  him.  And  even  when  the  count  had  just 
fallen  under  his  dagger  he  had  not  been  so  ghastly 
pale.  .  .  .  The  children  were  sobbing  desperately 
at  his  knees.  The  men  hesitated  ;  but  there  was  no 
pity  in  the  man  of  God ;  he  repeated  his  sign  more 
decisively  than  before,  and  the  men  advanced.  The 
children  clung  to  Checco' s  legs,  crying : 

"  Checco,  don't  let  them  touch  us  !  " 

He  made  no  sign.  He  held  his  eyes  straight  in 
front  of  him,  as  if  he  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing. 
But  his  face  !  Never  have  I  seen  such  agony.  .  .  . 

The  children  were  torn  from  him,  their  hands 
bound  behind  their  backs.  How  could  they !  My 
heart  was  bursting  within  me,  but  I  dared  say 


244  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

nothing.  They  were  led  to  the  scaffold.  A  sobbing 
cry  came  from  the  people  and  wailed  through  the 
heavy  air. 

The  countess  stood  still,  looking  at  her  children. 
She  made  not  the  slightest  motion ;  she  might  have 
been  of  stone. 

The  children  cried  out  : 

"  Checco  !     Checco !  " 

It  was  heartbreaking. 

"  Go  on  !  "  said  Savello. 

A  groan  burst  from  Checco,  and  he  swayed  to  and 
fro,  as  if  he  were  going  to  fall. 

"  Go  on  !  "  said  Savello. 

But  Checco  could  not  bear  it. 

"  O  God !     Stop  !     Stop  ! " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Savello,  angrily. 
"Go  on!" 

"  I  cannot !     Untie  them  !  " 

"You  fool!  I  threatened  to  hang  them,  and  I 
will.  Go  on  !  " 

"  You  shall  not !     Untie  them,  I  tell  you  !  " 

"  I  am  master  here.     Go  on  !  " 

Checco  strode  towards  him  with  clenched  fists. 

"  By  God,  Master  Priest,  you  shall  go  the  way  you 
came,  if  you  thwart  me.  Untie  them  !  " 

In  a  moment  Matteo  and  I  had  pushed  aside  the 
men  who  held  them,  and  cut  their  cords.  Checco 
staggered  towards  the  children,  and  they  with  a  bound 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  245 

threw  themselves  into  his  arms.  He  clasped  them 
to  him  passionately,  and  covered  them  with  kisses. 
A  shout  of  joy  broke  from  the  people,  and  many 
burst  into  tears. 

Suddenly  we  saw  a  commotion  on  the  castle  walls. 
The  countess  had  fallen  back,  and  men  were  pressing 
around  her. 

She  had  fainted. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

WE  went  home  rather  troubled.  Savello  was 
walking  alone,  very  angry,  with  a  heavy  frown 
between  his  eyes,  refusing  to  speak.  .  .  .  Checco 
was  silent  and  angry,  too,  half  blaming  himself  for 
what  he  had  done,,  half  glad,  and  Bartolomeo  Moratini 
was  by  his  side,  talking  to  him.  Matteo  and  I  were 
behind  with  the  children.  Bartolomeo  fell  back  and 
joined  us. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  persuade  Checco  to  apolo- 
gise to  Savello,  but  he  will  not." 

"  Neither  would  I,"  said  Matteo. 

"  If  they  quarrel,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  the 
town." 

"  If  I  were  Checco,  I  would  say  that  the  town 
might  go  to  the  devil,  but  I  would  not  apologise  to 
that  damned  priest." 

When  we  reached  the  Palazzo  Orsi  a  servant  came 
out  to  meet  us,  and  told  Checco  that  a  messenger 
was  waiting  with  important  news.  Checco  turned  to 
Savello,  and  said,  gloomily : 

"  Will  you  come  ?  It  may  need  some  consultation." 
246 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  247 

The  protonotary  did  not  answer,  but  walked  sulkily 
into  the  house.  After  a  few  minutes,  Checco  came 
to  us,  and  said : 

"  The  Duke  of  Milan  is  marching  against  Forli  with 
five  thousand  men." 

No  one  spoke,  but  the  expression  on  the  protono- 
tary's  face  grew  darker. 

"  It  is  fortunate  we  have  preserved  the  children," 
said  Bartolomeo.  "  They  will  be  more  useful  to  us 
alive  than  dead." 

Savello  looked  at  him,  and  then,  as  if  trying  to 
mend  the  breach,  but  rather  against  his  will,  said, 
ungraciously  : 

"  Perhaps  you  were  right,  Checco,  in  what  you  did. 
I  did  not  see  at  the  moment  the  political  wisdom  of 
your  act." 

He  could  not  help  the  sneer.  Checco  flushed  a 
little,  but  on  a  look  Bartolomeo  answered  : 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  was  too  quick  of  tongue.  The 
excitement  of  the  moment  and  my  temper  made  me 
scarcely  responsible." 

Checco  looked  as  if  it  were  a  very  bitter  pill  he  had 
been  forced  to  swallow,  but  the  words  had  a  reason- 
able effect,  and  the  clouds  began  to  clear  away.  An 
earnest  discussion  was  commenced  on  the  future 
movements.  The  first  thing  was  to  send  for  help 
against  the  Duke  Lodovico.  Savello  said  he  would 
apply  to  Rome.  Checco  counted  on  Lorenzo  de' 


248  THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

Medici,  and  messengers  were  forthwith  despatched  to 
both.  Then  it  was  decided  to  gather  as  much  victuals 
as  possible  into  the  town,  and  fortify  the  walls,  so 
that  they  might  be  prepared  for  a  siege.  As  to  the 
citadel,  we  knew  it  was  impossible  to  take  it  by  storm  ; 
but  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  starve  it  into  surrender, 
for  on  the  news  of  the  count's  death  the  gates  had 
been  shut  with  such  precipitation  that  the  garrison 
could  not  have  food  for  more  than  two  or  three 
days. 

Then  Checco  sent  away  his  wife  and  children ;  he 
tried  to  persuade  his  father  to  go,  too,  but  the  Orso 
said  he  was  too  old,  and  would  rather  die  in  his  own 
town  and  palace  than  rush  about  the  country  in 
search  of  safety.  In  the  troubled  days  of  his  youth 
he  had  been  exiled  many  times,  and  now  his  only 
desire  was  to  remain  at  home  in  his  beloved  Forli. 

The  news  of  Lodovico's  advance  threw  consterna- 
tion into  the  town,  and  when  cartloads  of  provisions 
were  brought  in,  and  the  fortifications  worked  at  day 
and  night,  the  brave  citizens  began  to  quake  and 
tremble.  They  were  going  to  have  a  siege,  and 
would  have  to  fight,  and  it  was  possible  that,  if  they 
did  not  sufficiently  hide  themselves  behind  the  walls, 
they  might  be  killed.  As  I  walked  through  the 
streets,  I  noticed  that  the  whole  populace  was  dis- 
tinctly paler.  ...  It  was  as  if  a  cold  wind  had 
blown  between  their  shoulders,  and  bleached  and 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  249 

pinched  their  faces.  I  smiled,  and  said  to  them, 
in  myself : 

"  You  have  had  the  plunder  of  the  Palace  and  the 
custom-houses,  my  friends,  and  you  liked  that  very 
well;  now  you  will  have  to  pay  for  your  pleasure." 

I  admired  Checco's  wisdom  in  giving  them  good 
reasons  for  being  faithful  to  him.  I  imagined  that, 
if  the  beneficent  rule  of  the  countess  returned,  it 
would  fare  ill  with  those  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
looting.  .  .  . 

Checco  had  caused  his  family  to  leave  the  town  as 
secretly  as  possible  ;  the  preparations  had  been  made 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  the  departure  effected 
under  cover  of  night.  But  it  leaked  out,  and  then 
the  care  he  had  taken  in  concealing  the  affair  made 
it  more  talked  of.  They  asked  why  Checco  had 
sent  away  his  wife  and  children.  Was  he  afraid  of 
the  siege?  Did  he  intend  to  leave  them  himself? 
At  the  idea  of  a  betrayal,  anger  mixed  itself  with 
their  fear,  and  they  cried  out  against  him !  And 
why  did  he  want  to  do  it  so  secretly  ?  Why  should 
he  try  to  conceal  it  ?  A  thousand  answers  were 
given,  and  all  more  or  less  discreditable  to  Checco. 
His  wronderful  popularity  had  taken  long  enough  to 
reach  the  point  when  he  had  walked  through  the 
streets  amidst  showers  of  narcissi ;  but  it  looked  as 
if  less  days  would  destroy  it  than  years  had  built 
it  up.  Already  he  could  walk  out  without  being 


250  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

surrounded  by  the  mob  and  carried  about  in  triumph. 
The  shouts  of  joy  had  ceased  to  be  a  burden  to 
him  ;  and  no  one  cried  "  Pater  Patrice"  as  he  passed. 
Checco  pretended  to  notice  no  change,  but  in  his 
heart  it  tormented  him  terribly.  The  change  had 
begun  on  the  day  of  the  fiasco  at  the  fortress  ;  people 
blamed  the  leaders  for  letting  the  countess  out  of 
their  hands,  and  it  was  a  perpetual  terror  to  them  to 
have  the  enemy  in  their  very  midst.  It  would  have 
been  bearable  to  stand  an  ordinary  siege,  but  when 
they  had  their  own  citadel  against  them,  what  could 
they  do  ? 

The  townspeople  knew  that  help  was  coming  from 
Rome  and  Florence,  and  the  general  hope  was  that 
the  friendly  armies  would  arrive  before  the  terrible 
duke.  Strange  stories  were  circulated  about  Lodo- 
vico.  People  who  had  seen  him  at  Milan  described 
his  sallow  face  with  the  large  hooked  nose  and  the 
broad,  heavy  chin.  Others  told  of  his  cruelty.  It 
was  notorious  that  he  had  murdered  his  nephew  after 
keeping  him  a  prisoner  for  years.  They  remembered 
how  he  had  crushed  the  revolt  of  a  subject  town, 
hanging  in  the  market-place  the  whole  council,  young 
and  old,  and  afterwards  hunting  up  every  one  sus- 
pected of  complicity,  and  ruthlessly  putting  them  to 
death,  so  that  a  third  of  the  population  had  perished. 
The  Forlivesi  shuddered,  and  looked  anxiously  along 
the  roads  by  which  the  friendly  armies  were  expected. 


THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  2$  I 

Lorenzo  de'  Medici  refused  to  help. 

There  was  almost  a  tumult  in  the  town  when  the 
news  was  told.  He  said  that  the  position  of  Florence 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  send  troops  at  the 
present  moment,  but  later  he  would  be  able  to  do 
whatever  we  wished.  It  meant  that  he  intended  to 
wait  and  see  how  things  turned  out,  without  coming 
to  open  war  with  the  duke  unless  it  was  certain  that 
victory  would  be  on  our  side.  Checco  was  furious, 
and  the  people  were  furious  with  Checco.  He  had 
depended  entirely  on  the  help  from  Florence,  and 
when  it  failed  the  citizens  murmured  openly  against 
him,  saying  that  he  had  entered  into  this  thing  with- 
out preparation,  without  thought  of  the  future.  We 
begged  Checco  not  to  show  himself  in  the  town  that 
day,  but  he  insisted.  The  people  looked  at  him  as 
he  passed,  keeping  perfect  silence.  As  yet  they 
neither  praised  nor  blamed,  but  how  long  would  it 
be  before  they  refrained  from  cursing  him  they  had 
blessed  ?  Checco  walked  through  with  set  face,  very 
pale.  We  asked  him  to  turn  back,  but  he  refused, 
slackening  his  pace  to  prolong  the  walk,  as  if  it  gave 
him  a  certain  painful  pleasure  to  drain  the  cup  of 
bitterness  to  the  dregs.  In  the  piazza  we  saw  two 
councillors  talking  together;  they  crossed  over  to 
the  other  side,  pretending  not  to  see  us. 

Now  our  only  hope  was  in  Rome.  The  Pope  had 
sent  a  messenger  to  say  that  he  was  preparing  an 


252  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

army,  and  bidding  us  keep  steadfast  and  firm. 
Savello  posted  the  notice  up  in  the  market-place, 
and  the  crowd  that  read  broke  out  into  praises  of 
the  Pope  and  Savello.  And,  as  Checco's  influence 
diminished,  Savello's  increased ;  the  protonotary 
began  to  take  greater  authority  in  the  councils, 
and  often  he  seemed  to  contradict  Checco  for  the 
mere  pleasure  of  overbearing  and  humiliating  him. 
Checco  became  more  taciturn  and  gloomy  every 
day. 

But  the  high  spirits  of  the  townsmen  sank  when 
it  was  announced  that  Lodovico's  army  was  within  a 
day's  march,  and  nothing  had  been  heard  from  Rome. 
Messengers  were  sent  urging  the  Pope  to  hasten  his 
army,  or  at  least  to  send  a  few  troops  to  divert 
the  enemy  and  encourage  the  people.  The  citizens 
mounted  the  ramparts  and  watched  the  two  roads,  — 
the  road  that  led  from  Milan  and  the  road  that  led 
to  Rome.  The  duke  was  coming  nearer  and  nearer ; 
the  peasants  began  to  flock  into  the  town,  with  their 
families,  their  cattle,  and  such  property  as  they  had 
been  able  to  carry  with  them.  They  said  the  duke 
was  approaching  with  a  mighty  army,  and  that  he 
had  vowed  to  put  all  the  inhabitants  to  the  sword  to 
revenge  the  death  of  his  brother.  The  fear  of  the 
fugitives  spread  to  the  citizens,  and  there  was  a 
general  panic.  The  gates  were  closed,  and  all 
grown  men  summoned  to  arms.  Then  they  began 


THE  MAKING   OF  A  SAINT.  2$$ 

to  lament,  asking  what  inexperienced  townsmen 
could  do  against  the  trained  army  of  the  duke,  and 
the  women  wept  and  implored  their  husbands  not 
to  risk  their  precious  lives ;  and  above  all  rose  the 
murmur  against  Checco. 

When  would  the  army  come  from  Rome  ?  They 
asked  the  country  folk,  but  they  had  heard  of 
nothing ;  they  looked  and  looked,  but  the  road  was 
empty. 

And,  suddenly,  over  the  hills  was  seen  appearing 
the  vanguard  of  the  duke's  army.  The  troops 
wound  down  into  the  plain,  and  others  appeared 
on  the  brow  of  the  hills ;  slowly  they  marched 
down,  and  others  again  appeared,  and  others  and 
others,  and  still  they  appeared  on  the  summit  and 
wound  down  into  the  plain.  They  wondered,  hor- 
ror-stricken, how  large  the  army  was,  —  five,  ten, 
twenty  thousand  men  !  Would  it  never  end  ?  They 
were  panic-stricken.  At  last  the  whole  army  de- 
scended and  halted ;  there  was  a  confusion  of  com- 
mands, a  rushing  hither  and  thither,  a  bustling,  a 
troubling ;  it  looked  like  a  colony  of  ants  furnishing 
their  winter  home.  The  camp  was  marked  out, 
entrenchments  were  made,  tents  erected,  and  Forli 
was  in  a  state  of  siege. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  night  fell,  and  was  passed  without  sleep  or 
rest.  The  citizens  were  gathered  together  on  the 
walls,  talking  anxiously,  trying  to  pierce  the  darkness 
to  see  the  rescuing  army  from  Rome.  Now  and 
then  some  one  thought  he  heard  the  tramp  of 
cavalry,  or  saw  a  gleam  of  armour,  and  then  they 
stood  still,  holding  their  breaths,  listening.  But 
they  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing.  .  .  .  Others  were 
assembled  in  the  piazza,  and  with  them  a  crowd 
of  women  and  children ;  the  churches  were  full  of 
women  praying  and  weeping.  The  night  seemed 
endless.  At  last  a  greater  chilliness  of  the  air  told 
them  that  the  dawn  was  at  hand ;  gradually  the 
darkness  seemed  to  thin  away  into  a  cold  pallor, 
and  above  a  bank  of  cloud  in  the  east  appeared 
a  sickly  light.  More  anxiously  than  ever  our  eyes 
turned  towards  Rome ;  the  mist  hid  the  country 
from  us,  but  some  of  the  watchers  thought  they 
saw  a  black  mass,  far  away.  They  pointed  it  out 
to  the  others,  and  all  watched  eagerly ;  but  the 
black  mass  grew  neither  larger  nor  clearer  nor 

254 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  2$$ 

nearer ;  and  as  great  yellow  rays  shot  up  above 
the  clouds,  and  the  sun  rose  slowly,  we  saw  the 
road  stretched  out  before  us,  and  it  was  empty, 
empty,  empty. 

It  was  almost  a  sob  that  burst  from  them,  and 
moaningly  they  asked  when  help  was  coming.  At 
that  moment  a  man  ascended  the  ramparts  and  told 
us  that  the  protonotary  had  received  a  letter  from 
the  Pope,  in  which  he  informed  him  that  relief  was 
on  the  way.  A  cheer  broke  from  us.  At  last ! 

The  siege  began  in  earnest,  with  a  simultaneous 
attack  on  the  four  gates  of  the  town,  but  they  were 
well  defended,  and  the  enemy  easily  beaten  off.  But 
all  at  once  we  heard  a  great  sound  of  firing,  and 
shouts,  and  shrieks,  and  we  saw  flames  burst  from 
the  roof  of  a  house.  In  our  thought  of  Lodovico  we 
had  forgotten  the  enemy  in  our  midst,  and  a  terrible 
panic  broke  out  when  it  was  found  that  the  citadel 
had  opened  fire.  The  castellan  had  turned  his 
cannon  on  the  houses  surrounding  the  fortress,  and 
the  damage  was  terrible.  The  inhabitants  hurried 
out  for  their  lives,  taking  with  them  their  chattels, 
and  fled  to  safer  parts  of  the  town.  One  house  had 
been  set  on  fire,  and  for  awhile  we  feared  that  others 
would  catch  and  a  general  conflagration  be  added  to 
our  woes.  People  said  it  was  a  visitation  of  God ; 
they  talked  of  divine  vengeance  for  the  murder  of 
the  count,  and  when  Checco  hurried  to  the  scene 


2$ 6  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

of  the  fire  they  did  not  care  to  restrain  themselves 
any  longer,  but  broke  out  into  yells  and  hisses. 
Afterwards,  when  the  flames  had  been  extinguished 
and  Checco  was  passing  through  the  piazza,  they 
surrounded  him,  hooting,  and  would  not  let  him 
pass. 

"Curs!"  he  hissed,  looking  at  them,  furiously, 
with  clenched  fists.  Then,  as  if  unable  to  contain 
nimself,  he  drew  his  sword,  shouting : 

"  Let  me  pass  !  " 

They  shrank  back,  and  he  went  his  way.  But, 
immediately  he  had  gone,  the  storm  redoubled,  and 
the  place  rang  with  their  cries. 

"  By  God/'  said  Checco,  "  how  willingly  I  would 
turn  the  cannon  on  them,  and  mow  them  down  like 
grass ! " 

They  were  the  first  words  he  had  said  of  the 
change  of  feeling.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  same  with  us,  when  we  walked  through 
the  streets,  —  Matteo  and  I,  and  the  Moratini,  - 
they  hissed  and  groaned  at  us.     And  a  week  before 
they  would  have  licked  our  boots,  and  kissed  the 
ground  we  trod  on. 

The  bombardment  continued,  outside  and  in,  and 
it  was  reported  through  the  town  that  Lodovico  had 
vowed  to  sack  the  place,  and  hang  every  third  citi- 
zen. They  knew  he  was  the  man  to  keep  his  word. 
The  murmurs  began  to  grow  even  louder,  and  voices 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

were  heard  suggesting  a  surrender.  ...  It  had  oc- 
curred to  all  of  them,  and  when  the  most  timid,  driven 
to  boldness  by  their  fear,  spoke  the  word,  they  looked 
at  one  another  guiltily.  They  gathered  together  in 
little  knots,  talking  in  undertones,  suspicious,  stop- 
ping suddenly  if  they  saw  near  any  one  who  was 
known  to  be  in  favour  of  the  party  of  liberty. 
They  discussed  how  to  make  terms  for  themselves ; 
some  suggested  giving  up  the  town  unconditionally, 
others  proposed  an  agreement.  At  last  they  spoke 
of  appeasing  the  duke  by  handing  over  to  him  the 
seventeen  conspirators,  who  had  planned  the  murder 
of  Girolamo.  The  thought  frightened  them  at  first, 
but  they  soon  became  used  to  it.  They  said  the 
Orsi  had  really  had  no  thought  of  the  common  good, 
but  it  was  for  their  private  ends  that  they  had  killed 
the  count,  and  brought  this  evil  on  the  town.  They 
railed  against  Checco  for  making  them  suffer  for 
his  own  ambition  ;  they  had  lauded  him  to  the  skies 
for  refusing  the  sovereignty,  but  now  they  said  he 
had  only  feigned,  and  that  he  intended  to  seize  the 
city  at  the  first  good  opportunity.  And  as  to  the 
others,  they  had  helped  for  greed  and  petty  malice. 
As  they  talked,  they  grew  more  excited,  and  soon 
they  said  it  would  only  be  justice  to  hand  over  to 
the  duke  the  authors  of  their  troubles. 

The  day  passed,  and  the  second  night,  but  there 
were  no  signs  of  the  help  from  Rome. 


2$8  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

Another  night  passed  by,  and  still  nothing  came ; 
the  dawn,  and  the  road  was  as  empty  as  before. 

And  the  fourth  night  came  and  went,  and  still 
there  was  nothing.  Then  a  great  discouragement 
fell  upon  the  people ;  the  army  was  on  the  way,  but 
why  did  it  not  arrive  ?  Suddenly,  here  and  there, 
people  were  heard  asking  about  the  letter  from  the 
Pope.  No  one  had  seen  the  messenger.  How  had 
it  come  ?  And  a  horrible  suspicion  seized  the  peo- 
ple, so  that  they  rushed  to  the  Palazzo  Orsi,  asking 
for  Savello.  As  soon  as  he  appeared,  they  broke 
out,  clamorously : 

"Show  us  the  letter !" 

Savello  refused !  They  insisted ;  they  asked  for 
the  messenger  who  had  brought  it.  Savello  said  he 
had  been  sent  back.  None  of  us  had  seen  letter  or 
messenger ;  the  suspicion  seized  us,  too,  and  Checco 
asked : 

"Is  there  a  letter?" 

Savello  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  answered : 

"No!" 

"  O  God,  why  did  you  say  there  was  ?  " 

"  I  felt  sure  the  army  was  on  the  way.  I  wanted 
to  give  them  confidence." 

"You  fool!  Now  they  will  believe  nothing.  You 
fool,  you  have  muddled  everything !  " 

"  It  is  you !  You  told  me  that  the  city  was  firm 
for  the  Pope." 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  259 

"  So  it  was,  till  you  came  with  your  lies  and  your 
treacheries." 

Savello  closed  his  fist,  and  I  thought  he  was  going 
to  strike  Checco.  A  yell  burst  from  the  people. 

"  The  letter  !  the  messenger  !  " 

Checco  sprang  to  the  window. 

"  There  is  no  letter !  The  protonotary  has  lied 
to  you.  No  help  is  coming  from  Rome,  nor  from 
Florence ! " 

The  people  yelled  again,  and  another  cry  arose : 

"  Surrender  !     Surrender  !  " 

"  Surrender  at  your  pleasure/'  shouted  Checco, 
"but  do  not  think  that  the  duke  will  forgive  you 
for  stripping  the  count,  and  insulting  his  body,  and 
sacking  his  palace.'* 

Savello  was  standing  alone,  struck  dumb  in  his 
rage.  Checco  turned  to  him,  and  smiled  mockingly. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

NEXT  day  there  was  a  secret  meeting  of  the  coun- 
cil, of  which  neither  Checco  nor  his  friends  knew 
anything.  But  it  leaked  out  that  they  had  been  dis- 
cussing terms  which  Lodovico  had  offered.  And 
the  duke's  proposal  was  that  Riario's  children  should 
be  surrendered  to  .him,  and  the  town  ruled  by  a  com- 
mission, appointed  partly  by  him,  partly  by  the  For- 
livesi.  About  midday  a  servant  came  and  told  us 
that  Niccolo  Tornielli  and  the  other  members  of  the 
council  were  below,  seeking  admission.  Checco  went 
down,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  him  Niccolo  said : 

"Checco,  we  have  decided  that  it  will  be  better 
for  us  to  have  charge  of  the  children  of  Count  Giro- 
lamo ;  and,  therefore,  we  have  come  to  summon  you 
to  give  them  into  our  hands.'* 

Checco's  answer  was  short  and  pointed. 

"  If  that  is  all  you  came  for,  Niccolo,  you  can 
go.  .  .  ." 

At  this  Antonio  Lassi  broke  in  : 

"  We  shall  not  go  without  the  children/' 
260 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  26 1 

"  I  imagine  that  depends  on  me ;  and  I  intend  to 
keep  the  children." 

"  Take  care,  Checco ;  remember  that  you  are  not 
our  master/' 

"And  who  are  you,  Antonio,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

"I  am  a  member  of  the  council  of  Forli,  just  as 
you  are;  no  more,  no  less." 

"No,"  said  Checco,  furiously;  "I  will  tell  you 
who  you  are.  You  are  the  miserable  cur  who  pan- 
dered to  the  tyrant,  and  helped  him  to  oppress  the 
people  which  I  liberated ;  and  the  people  spat  upon 
you !  You  are  the  miserable  cur  who  fawned  upon 
me  when  I  had  killed  the  tyrant,  and  in  your  slavish 
adulation  you  proposed  to  make  me  ruler  in  his 
stead ;  and  I  spat  upon  you !  And  now  you  are 
afraid  again,  and  you  are  trying  to  make  peace  with 
the  duke  by  betraying  me,  and  it  is  from  you  that 
come  the  propositions  to  give  me  up  to  Lodovico. 
That  is  what  you  are !  Look  at  yourself,  and  be 
proud ! " 

Antonio  was  about  to  give  a  heated  answer,  but 
Niccolo  interrupted  him. 

"  Be  quiet,  Antonio  !  Now,  Checco,  let  us  have  the 
children." 

"  I  will  not,  I  tell  you  !  I  saved  their  lives,  and  they 
are  mine  by  right.  They  are  mine  because  I  killed 
the  count ;  because  I  took  them  prisoners ;  because 


262  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

I  hold  them  ;  and  because  they  are  necessary  for  my 
safety." 

"  They  are  necessary  for  our  safety,  too,  and  we, 
the  council  of  Forli,  summon  you,  Checco  d'Orsi,  to 
surrender  them." 

"And  I,  Checco  d'Orsi,  refuse !" 

"Then  we  shall  take  them  by  force." 

Niccolo  and  Antonio  stepped  forward.  Checco 
whipped  out  his  sword. 

"By  God,  I  swear  I  will  kill  the  first  man  who 
crosses  this  threshold  !  " 

Gradually  the  people  had  collected,  till  behind  the 
councillors  there  was  a  formidable  crowd.  They 
watched  with  eagerness  the  dispute,  hailing  with  joy 
the  opportunity  of  humiliating  their  old  hero.  They 
had  broken  out  in  mocking  laughter  while  Checco 
was  railing  at  Antonio  ;  now  they  shouted  : 

"  The  children  !   Surrender  the  children  !  " 

"  I  will  not,  I  tell  you  !  " 

They  began  to  hoot  and  hiss,  calling  Checco  foul 
names,  accusing  him  of  causing  all  their  troubles, 
naming  him  tyrant  and  usurper.  Checco  stood  look- 
ing at  them,  trembling  with  rage.  Niccolo  stepped 
forward  once  more. 

"  Give  them  up,  Checco,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for 
you." 

"  Advance  one  step  further,  and  I  will  kill  you  !  " 

The  people  grew  suddenly  exasperated ;  a  shower 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  263 

of  stones  fell  upon  us,  and  one,  striking  Checco, 
caused  a  long  streak  of  blood  to  flow  down  his  fore- 
head. 

"  Give  us  the  children  !  Give  us  the  children  !  " 

"We  will  call  the  guard,"  said  Antonio. 

"  The  children  !  "  shouted  the  mob.  "  He  will  kill 
them.  Take  them  from  him." 

There  was  a  rush  from  behind ;  the  councillors 
and  their  supporters  were  driven  forward ;  they  were 
met  by  our  drawn  swords ;  in  another  moment  it 
would  have  been  too  late,  and  against  two  hundred 
we  should  have  been  helpless.  Suddenly  Bartolo- 
meo  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  great  staircase  with 
the  boys. 

"  Stop ! "  he  cried.  "  Here  are  the  children. 
Stop  !  "  Checco  turned  around  to  him. 

"  I  will  not  have  them  given  up.  Take  them 
away ! " 

"I  have  never  asked  you  anything  before,  Checco," 
said  Bartolomeo ;  "  I  have  always  done  as  you  com- 
manded ;  but  this  time  I  implore  you  to  give  way." 

I  joined  my  words  to  his. 

"You  must  give  way.  We  shall  all  be  mas- 
sacred." 

Checco  stood  for  a  moment  undecided,  then,  with- 
out speaking,  he  turned  into  a  room  looking  on  the 
court.  We  took  it  for  consent,  and  Bartolomeo 
handed  the  frightened  children  to  the  councillors. 


264  TffJS  MAKING   OF  A  SAINT. 

A  shout  of  joy  broke  from  the  people,   and  they 
marched  off  with  their  prize,  in  triumph.  .  .  . 

I  sought  Checco,  and  found  him  alone.  As  he 
heard  the  shouts  of  the  people,  a  sob  came  from  him 
in  the  misery  of  his  humiliation. 

But  Jacopo  Ronchi  and  the  two  sons  of  Bartolo- 
meo  were  sent  out  to  discover  what  was  going  on. 
We  could  not  think  what  had  driven  the  council  to 
their  step ;  but  we  felt  sure  they  must  have  good 
reasons  for  acting  so  courageously.  We  felt  also 
that  we  had  lost  all  power,  all  hope.  The  wheel  had 
turned,  and  now  we  were  at  the  bottom.  After 
several  hours,  Alessandro  Moratini  came  back  and 
said : 

"The  council  has  been  meeting  again,  and  it  has 
been  receiving  messengers ;  but  that  is  all  I  know. 
Every  one  looks  upon  me  with  an  evil  eye,  and  be- 
comes silent  at  my  approach.  I  ask  questions,  and 
they  say  they  know  nothing,  have  seen  nothing, 
heard  nothing.'1 

"  Brutes  !  "  said  Matteo. 

"  And  for  these  people  we  risked  our  lives  and  for- 
tunes ! "  said  Bartolomeo. 

Checco  looked  at  him,  curiously ;  and,  like  him,  I 
thought  of  our  disinterestedness !  Alessandro,  hav- 
ing given  his  news,  filled  a  glass  with  wine  and  sat 
down.  We  all  kept  silence.  The  time  went  on,  and 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  26$ 

the  afternoon  began  to  close ;  the  hours  seemed  in- 
terminable. At  last  Jacopo  Ronchi  came,  panting. 

"I  have  discovered  everything,"  he  said.  "The 
council  has  resolved  to  surrender  the  town  to  the 
duke,  who  promises,  in  return  for  the  children,  to 
forgive  everything  and  allow  them  to  rule  them- 
selves, with  half  the  council  appointed  by  him." 

We  sprang  up,  with  a  cry. 

"  I  will  not  allow  it,"  said  Checco. 

"  If  the  conspirators  make  any  disturbance,  they 
are  to  be  outlawed  and  a  price  set  upon  their  heads." 

"  How  far  have  the  negotiations  gone  ? "  I  asked. 

"  The  messengers  have  been  sent  to  the  duke  now." 

"  In  that  case  there  is  no  time  to  lose,"  I  said. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Checco. 

"We  must  escape." 

"  Escape ! " 

"  Or  we  shall  be  taken  alive ;  and  you  know  what 
to  expect  from  Caterina  and  Lodovico.  Do  not  think 
of  their  promises  of  pardon." 

"I  put  no  trust  in  their  promises,"  said  Checco, 
bitterly. 

"Filippo  is  right,"  said  Bartolomeo.  "We  must 
escape." 

"  And  quickly  !  "  I  said. 

"  I  cannot  throw  up  the  game,"  said  Checco. 
"And  without  me,  what  will  happen  to  my  sup- 
porters ? " 


266  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"They  may  find  forgiveness  in  submission.  But 
you  can  do  no  good  here.  If  you  are  in  safety,  you 
may  be  of  some  assistance.  Anyhow,  you  will  have 
life." 

Checco  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"I  cannot,  I  cannot." 

The  Moratini  and  I  insisted.  We  adduced  every 
argument.  Finally  he  consented. 

"We  must  go  together,"  I  said ;  "we  may  have  to 
fight  our  way  through. " 

"  Yes,"  said  Scipione.  "  Let  us  meet  at  the  gate 
by  the  river,  —  at  two." 

"  But  go  there  separately.  If  the  people  find  we 
are  attempting  to  escape,  they  will  set  upon  us." 

"  I  wish  they  would,"  said  Matteo.  "  It  would 
give  me  such  satisfaction  to  put  my  sword  into  half 
a  score  of  their  fat  bellies  !  " 

"There  is  no  moon." 

"  Very  well ;  at  two  !  " 

The  night  was  cloudy,  and,  if  there  had  been  a 
moon,  it  would  have  been  covered.  A  thin,  cold 
rain  was  falling,  and  it  was  pitch  dark.  When  I  got 
to  the  river  gate,  four  or  five  of  them  were  already 
there.  We  felt  too  cold  and  miserable  to  speak  ;  we 
sat  on  our  horses,  waiting.  As  new  arrivals  came, 
we  peered  into  their  faces,  and  then,  on  recognising 
them,  bent  back,  and  sat  on  silently.  We  were  all 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  267 

there  but  Checco.  We  waited  for  a  time.  At  last 
Bartolomeo  Moratini  whispered  to  Matteo  : 

"  Where  did  you  leave  Checco  ?  " 

"  In  the  house.  He  told  me  to  go  on,  saying  he 
would  follow  shortly.  Two  horses  were  saddled 
besides  mine/' 

"  Whom  was  the  second  for  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

We  waited  on.  The  rain  fell  thin  and  cold.  It 
struck  half  past  two.  Immediately  afterwards,  we 
heard  the  sound  of  hoofs,  and  through  the  mist  saw 
a  black  form  coming  towards  us. 

"  Is  it  you,  Checco  ?  "  we  whispered,  for  the  guard 
of  the  gate  might  have  heard  us.  We  were  standing 
in  a  little  plot  of  waste  ground,  ten  yards  from  the 
walls. 

"  I  cannot  go  with  you,"  said  Checco. 

"  Why  ?  "  we  cried. 

"  Ssh  !  "  said  Checco.  "  I  intended  to  bring  my 
father,  but  he  will  not  come." 

None  of  us  had  thought  of  old  Orso  Orsi. 

"  He  says  he  is  too  old,  and  will  not  leave  his 
native  town.  I  did  all  I  could  to  persuade  him,  but 
he  bade  me  go,  and  said  they  would  not  dare  to  touch 
him.  I  cannot  leave  him ;  therefore  go,  all  of  you, 
and  I  will  remain." 

"  You  must  come,  Checco ;  without  you  we  are 
helpless." 


268  THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"  And  what  of  your  wife  and  children  ? " 

"  Your  presence  will  exasperate  the  tyrants.  You 
can  do  no  good,  only  harm." 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  father  unprotected." 

"  I  will  stay,  Checco,"  I  said.  "  I  am  not  well 
known  as  you  are.  I  will  take  care  of  your  father, 
and  you  can  watch  over  your  family  and  your  in- 
terests in  safety." 

"  No,  you  must  go.      It  is  too  dangerous  for  you." 

"  Not  half  so  dangerous  as  for  you.  I  will  do  my 
best  to  preserve  him.  Let  me  stay." 

"Yes,"  said  the  others,  "let  Filippo  stay.  He 
may  escape  detection,  but  you  would  have  no  chance." 

The  clock  struck  three. 

"  Come,  come ;  it  is  getting  late.  We  must  be 
thirty  miles  away  before  daybreak." 

We  had  already  arranged  to  go  to  Citta  di  Cas- 
tello,  which  was  my  native  place,  and,  in  case  of 
accident,  I  had  given  them  letters,  so  that  -they 
might  be  housed  and  protected,  for  the  present. 

"  We  must  have  you,  Checco,  or  we  will  all  stay." 

"  You  will  take  care  of  him  ? "  said  Checco  to  me, 
at  last. 

"  I  swear  it ! " 

"  Very  well !  Good-bye,  Filippo,  and  God  bless 
you  !  " 

They  advanced  to  the  gate,  and  Checco  summoned 
the  captain. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A  SAINT.  269 

"  Open  the  gate,"  he  said,  shortly. 

The  captain  looked  at  them,  undecisively.  I  stood 
behind,  in  the  shade,  so  that  I  could  not  be  seen. 

"  If  you  make  a  sound,  we  will  kill  you/1  said 
Checco. 

They  drew  their  swords.  He  hesitated,  and 
Checco  repeated : 

"  Open  the  gate  ! " 

Then  he  brought  out  the  heavy  keys ;  the  locks 
were  turned,  the  gate  growled  on  its  hinges,  and  one 
by  one  they  filed  out.  Then  the  gate  swung  back 
behind  them.  I  heard  a  short  word  of  command 
and  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs.  I  put  the  spurs  to 
my  own,  and  galloped  back  into  the  town. 

In  half  an  hour  the  bells  were  ringing  furiously, 
and  it  was  announced,  from  house  to  house,  that  the 
conspirators  had  fled,  and  the  town  was  free. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

IN  the  morning  the  council  met  again,  and  resolved 
that  the  town  should  return  to  its  old  obedience,  and, 
by  surrendering  without  conditions,  hoped  to  receive 
pardon  for  its  offences.  Lodovico  Moro  entered  in 
triumph,  and,  going  to  the  fortress,  was  received  by 
Caterina,  who  came  forth  from  the  citadel,  and  with 
him  proceeded  to  the  cathedral  to  hear  mass.  The 
good  Forlivesi  were  getting  used  to  ovations ;  as  the 
countess  passed  through  the  streets,  they  received 
her  with  acclamation,  thronging  the  road  on  each 
side,  blessing  her,  and  her  mother,  and  all  her  ances- 
tors. She  went  her  way  as  indifferent  as  when  she 
had  crossed  the  same  streets,  a  few  days  back,  amid 
the  execrations  of  her  faithful  subjects.  The  keen 
observers  noticed  the  firm  closing  of  her  mouth, 
which  boded  no  particular  good  to  the  Forlivesi,  and 
consequently  redoubled  their  shouts  of  joy. 

The  protonotary,  Savello,  had  mysteriously  disap- 
peared when  the  news  of  Checco's  flight  had  been 
brought  him  ;  but  Caterina  was  soon  informed  that 

270 


THE  MAKING   OF  A    SAINT.  2?1 

he  had  taken  refuge  in  a  Dominican  monastery.  A 
light  smile  broke  over  her  lips,  as  she  remarked  : 

"One  would  rather  have  expected  him  to  take 
refuge  in  a  convent." 

Then  she  sent  people  to  him  to  assure  him  of  her 
good-will  and  beg  him  to  join  her.  The  good  man 
turned  pale  at  the  invitation,  but  he  dared  not  refuse 
it.  So,  comforting  himself  with  the  thought  that  she 
dared  not  harm  the  legate  of  the  Pope,  he  clothed 
himself  in  all  his  courage  and  his  most  gorgeous 
robes,  and  proceeded  to  the  cathedral. 

When  she  saw  him,  she  lifted  up  two  fingers  and 
said,  solemnly : 

"  The  peace  of  God  be  upon  you  !  " 

Then,  before  he  could  recover  himself,  she  went 
on : 

"  Sir,  it  has  always  been  my  hope  that  I  should 
some  day  meet  the  gentleman  whose  fame  has 
reached  me  as  the  most  talented,  most  beautiful, 
and  most  virtuous  of  his  day." 

"  Madam  —  "  he  interrupted. 

"  Sir,  I  beseech  you  bravely  to  bear  your  evil 
fortunes.  Do  you  not  know  that  fortune  is  uncer- 
tain ?  If  the  city  has  been  taken  from  you,  it  is 
the  will  of  God,  and  as  a  Christian  you  must  with 
resignation  submit  yourself  to  his  decrees." 

It  was  the  beginning  of  her  revenge,  and  one  could 
see  how  sweet  it  was.  The  courtiers  were  snicker- 


272  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

ing  at  Caterina's  speech,  and  Savello  was  the  picture 
of  discomfort. 

"Messer  Savello/*  she  proceeded,  "on  a  previous 
meeting  you  made  me  some  very  excellent  admoni- 
tions on  the  will  of  God ;  now,  notwithstanding  your 
order,  I  am  going  to  be  so  bold  as  to  give  you  some 
equally  excellent  lessons  on  the  same  subject.  If 
you  will  take  your  place  by  my  side,  you  will  have 
every  opportunity  of  examining  the  ways  of  the 
Almighty,  which,  as  you  may  remember  you  re- 
marked, are  inscrutable." 

Savello  bowed,  and  advanced  to  the  place  pointed 
out  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  first  thing  I  had  done  on  returning  to  the 
Palazzo  Orsi  was  to  strip  myself  of  my  purple  and 
fine  linen,  shave  my  beard  and  moustache,  cut  my 
hair  short,  put  on  the  clothes  of  a  serving-man,  and 
look  at  myself  in  a  mirror.  If  I  had  met  in  the  street 
the  image  I  saw,  I  should  have  passed  on  without 
recognising  it.  Still,  I  was  not  dissatisfied  with  my- 
self, and  I  smiled  as  I  thought  that  it  would  not  be 
too  extraordinary  if  a  lady's  wench  lost  her  heart.  *<> 
such  a  serving-man. 

I  went  to  the  old  Orso's  apartments,  and  found 
everything  quiet ;  I  lay  down  on  a  couch  outside  the 
doors  and  tried  to  sleep  ;  but  my  thoughts  troubled 
me.  My  mind  was  with  the  sad  horsemen  galloping 
through  the  night,  and  I  wondered  what  the  morrow 
had  in  store  for  them  and  me.  I  knew  a  price  would 
be  set  upon  my  head,  and  I  had  to  remain  here  in 
the  midst  of  my  enemies  as  the  only  protection  of 
an  old  man  of  eighty-five. 

In  a  little  while,  I  heard  the  bells  which  told  the 
273 


2/4  THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

town  that  the  conspirators  had  fled,  and  at  last  I  fell 
into  a  troubled  sleep.  At  six  I  was  wakened  up  by  a 
hurry  and  bustle  in  the  house.  .  .  .  The  servants 
told  one  another  that  Checco  had  gone,  and  the 
countess  would  come  out  of  the  fortress  in  a  little 
while ;  and  then  God  only  knew  what  would  happen. 
They  cowered  about,  whispering,  taking  no  notice  of 
the  new  serving-man  who  had  appeared  in  the  night. 
They  said  that  the  palace  would  be  given  over  to 
the  vengeance  of  the  people,  that  the  servants  would 
suffer  instead  of  the  master  ;  and  soon  one  of  them 
gave  the  signal ;  he  said  he  would  not  stay,  and  since 
his  wages  had  not  been  paid  he  would  take  them  with 
him.  He  filled  his  pockets  with  such  valuables  as 
he  could  find,  and,  going  down  a  back  staircase,  slid 
out  of  a  little  side  door  and  was  lost  in  the  laby- 
rinth of  streets.  The  others  were  quick  to  follow  his 
example,  and  the  palace  was  subjected  to  a  looting 
in  miniature ;  the  old  steward  stood  by,  wringing  his 
hands,  but  they  paid  no  attention  to  him,  thinking 
only  of  their  safety  and  their  pockets.  Before  the 
sun  had  had  time  to  clear  away  the  early  mists,  they 
had  all  fled  ;  and  besides  the  old  man,  the  house 
contained  only  the  white-haired  steward,  a  boy  of 
twenty,  his  nephew,  and  myself ;  and  Checco  had 
been  such  a  sweet  and  gentle  master ! 

We  went  in  to  the  old  Orso.      He  was  seated  in  a 
large  armchair  by  the  fireside,  huddled  up  in  a  heavy 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  2?$ 

dressing-gown.  He  had  sunk  his  head  down  in  his 
collar  to  keep  warm,  so  that  one  could  only  see  the 
dead  eyes,  the  nose,  and  the  sunken,  wrinkled  cheeks  ; 
a  velvet  cap  covered  his  hair  and  forehead.  He  was 
holding  his  long,  shrivelled  hands  to  the  fire,  and  the 
flames  almost  shone  through  them  ;  they  trembled 
incessantly.  He  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  our 
entrance. 

"Ah,  Pietro!"  he  said  to  the  steward.  Then, 
after  a  pause,  "  Where  is  Fabrizio  ?  " 

Fabrizio  was  the  servant  in  whose  particular  charge 
the  Orso  had  been  put,  and  the  old  man  had  become 
so  fond  of  him  that  he  would  take  food  only  from 
his  hand,  and  insisted  on  having  him  near  at  every 
moment  of  the  day.  He  had  been  among  the  first 
to  fill  his  pockets  and  decamp. 

"  Why  does  not  Fabrizio  come  ? "  he  asked,  queru- 
lously. "Tell  him  I  want  him.  I  will  not  be 
neglected  in  this  way." 

Pietro  did  not  know  what  to  answer.  He  looked 
about  him,  in  embarrassment. 

"  Why  does  not  Fabrizio  come  ?  Now, that  Checco 
is  master  here,  they  neglect  me.  It  is  scandalous. 
I  shall  talk  to  Checco  about  it.  Where  is  Fabrizio  ? 
Tell  him  to  come  immediately,  on  pain  of  my  dis- 
pleasure/' 

His  voice  was  so  thin  and  weak  and  trembling  it 
was  like  that  of  a  little  child  ill  with  some  fever.  I 


2/6  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

saw  that  Pietro  had  nothing  to  say,  and  Orso  was 
beginning  to  moan  feebly. 

"  Fabrizio  has  been  sent  away,"  I  said,  "and  I  have 
been  put  in  his  place. " 

Pietro  and  his  nephew  looked  at  me.  They  noticed 
for  the  first  time  that  my  face  was  new,  and  they 
glanced  at  one  another  with  upraised  brows. 

"  Fabrizio  sent  away!  Who  sent  him  away?  I 
won't  have  him  sent  away." 

"Checco  sent  him  away." 

"  Checco  had  no  right  to  send  him  away.  I  am 
master  here.  They  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  child. 
It  is  shameful !  Where  is  Fabrizio  ?  I  will  not  have 
it,  I  tell  you.  It  is  shameful !  I  shall  speak  to 
Checco  about  it.  Where  is  Checco  ?" 

None  of  us  answered. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  when  I  speak  to  you  ? 
Where  is  Checco  ?  " 

He  raised  himself  in  his  chair  and  bent  forward  to 
look  at  us,  then  he  fell  back. 

"  Ah,  I  remember  now,"  he  murmured.  "  Checco 
has  gone.  He  wanted  me  to  go,  too.  But  I  am  too 
old,  too  old,  too  old.  I  told  Checco  what  it  would 
be.  I  know  the  Forlivesi ;  I  have  known  them  for 
eighty  years.  They  are  more  fickle  and  cowardly 
than  any  other  people  in  this  cesspool  which  they 
call  God's  earth.  I  have  been  an  exile  fourteen 
times.  Fourteen  times  I  have  fled  from  the  city, 


THE  MAKING  OF  A   SAINT.  277 

and  fourteen  times  I  have  returned.  Ah,  yes,  I  have 
lived  the  life  in  my  time,  but  I  am  tired  now.  I  don't 
want  to  go  out  again  ;  and,  besides,  I  am  so  old.  I 
might  die  before  I  returned,  and  I  want  to  die  in  my 
own  house." 

He  looked  at  the  fire,  murmuring  his  confidences 
to  the  smouldering  ashes.  Then  he  seemed  to  repeat 
his  talk  with  Checco. 

"  No,  Checco,  I  will  not  come.  Go  alone.  They 
will  not  touch  me.  I  am  Orso  Orsi.  They  will  not 
touch  me ;  they  dare  not.  Go  alone,  and  give  my 
love  to  Clarice." 

Clarice  was  Checco's  wife.  He  kept  silence  for 
awhile,  then  he  broke  out  again : 

"I  want  Fabrizio." 

"Will  I  not  do  instead  ? "  I  asked 

"Who  are  you?" 

I  repeated,  patiently : 

"  I  am  the  servant  placed  here  to  serve  you  instead 
of  Fabrizio.  My  name  is  Fabio." 

"Your  name  is  Fabio  ? "  he  asked,  looking  at  me. 

"Yes." 

"  No,  it  is  not !  Why  do  you  tell  me  your  name  is 
Fabio  ?  I  know  your  face.  You  are  not  a  serving- 
man." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  I  said. 

"  No,  no.  You  are  not  Fabio.  I  know  your  face. 
Who  are  you  ? " 


2/8  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"I  am  Fabio." 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  he  asked  again,  querulously.  "  I 
cannot  remember  who  you  are.  Why  don't  you  tell 
me  ?  Can't  you  see  that  I  am  an  old  man  ?  Why 
don't  you  tell  me  ? " 

His  voice  broke  into  the  moan,  and  I  thought  he 
would  cry.  He  had  only  seen  me  twice,  but  among 
his  few  visitors  the  faces  of  those  he  saw  remained 
with  him,  and  he  recognised  me  partly. 

"I  am  Filippo  Brandolini,"  I  said.  "I  have  re- 
mained here  to  look  after  you  and  see  that  no  harm 
happens.  Checco  wished  to  stay  himself,  but  we 
insisted  on  his  going." 

"  Oh,  you  are  a  gentleman,"  he  answered.  "  I  am 
glad  of  that." 

Then,  as  if  the  talk  had  tired  him,  he  sank  deeper 
down  in  his  chair  and  fell  into  a  doze. 

I  sent  Andrea,  the  steward's  nephew,  to  see  what 
was  happening  in  the  town,  and  Pietro  and  I  sat  in 
the  large  window  talking  in  undertones.  Suddenly 
Pietro  stopped,  and  said : 

"What  is  that?" 

We  both  listened.  A  confused  roar  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  it  resembled  the  raging  of  the  sea  very  far 
away.  I  opened  the  window,  and  looked  out.  The 
roar  became  louder,  louder,  and,  at  last,  we  discov- 
ered that  it  was  the  sound  of  many  voices. 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  Pietro,  again. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A  SAINT.  2?$ 

There  was  a  scrambling  up  the  stairs,  the  noise  of 
running  feet.  The  door  was  burst  violently  open, 
and  Andrea  rushed  in. 

"  Save  yourselves  !  "  he  cried.    "  Save  yourselves  ! " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  They  are  coming  to  sack  the  palace.  The  count- 
ess has  given  them  leave,  and  the  whole  populace 
is  up." 

The  roar  increased,  and  we  could  distinctly  hear 
the  shouting. 

"  Be  quick  !  "  cried  Andrea.  "  For  God's  sake  be 
quick !  They  will  be  here  in  a  moment !  " 

I  looked  to  the  door,  and  Pietro,  seeing  my 
thoughts,  said : 

"Not  that  way!  Here  is  another  door,  which 
leads  along  a  passage  into  a  side  street." 

He  lifted  the  tapestry,  and  showed  a  tiny  door, 
which  he  opened.  I  ran  to  old  Orso,  and  shook  him. 

"Wake  up!"  I  said;  "wake  up,  and  come  with 
me!" 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Never  mind ;  come  with  me !  " 

I  took  his  arm,  and  tried  to  lift  him  out  of  his 
chair,  but  he  caught  hold  of  the  handles,  and  would 
not  stir. 

"  I  will  not  move,"  he  said.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  mob  is  coming  to  sack  the  palace,  and  if 
they  find  you  here  they  will  kill  you." 


2  80  THE  MAKING   OF  A    SAINT. 

"  I  will  not  move.  I  am  Orso  Orsi.  They  dare 
not  touch  me." 

"Be  quick!  be  quick!"  screamed  Andrea,  from 
the  window.  "The  first  of  them  have  appeared  in 
the  street.  In  a  moment  they  will  be  here." 

"  Quick  !  quick  !  "  cried  Pietro. 

Now  the  roar  had  got  so  loud  that  it  buzzed  in 
one's  ears,  and  every  instant  it  grew  louder. 

"  Be  quick  !  be  quick  !  " 

"You  must  come,"  I  said,  and  Pietro  joined  his 
prayers  to  my  commands,  but  nothing  would  move 
the  old  man. 

"I  tell  you  I  will  not  fly.  I  am  the  head  of  my 
house.  £  am  Orso  Orsi.  I  will  not  fly  like  a  dog 
before  the  rabble." 

"For your  son's  sake,  —  for  our  sake,"  I  implored. 
"  We  shall  be  killed  with  you." 

"  You  may  go.  The  door  is  open  for  you.  I  will 
stay  alone." 

He  seemed  to  have  regained  his  old  spirit.  It  was 
as  if  a  last  flame  were  flickering  up. 

"We  will  not  leave  you,"  I  said.  "I  have  been 
put  by  Checco  to  protect  you,  and  if  you  are  killed,  I 
must  be  killed,  too.  Our  only  chance  is  to  fly." 

"Quick!  quick!"  cried  Andrea.  "They  are 
nearly  here ! " 

"O  master,  master,"  cried  Pietro,  "accept  the 
means  he  offers  you  ! " 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  28 1 

"Be  quick  !  be  quick  !  " 

"  Would  you  have  me  slink  down  a  back  passage, 
like  a  thief,  in  my  own  house  ?  Never  !  " 

"  They  have  reached  the  doors,"  cried  Andrea. 

The  noise  was  deafening  below.  The  gates  had 
been  closed,  and  we  heard  a  thunder  of  blows ; 
stones  were  thrown,  sticks  beaten  against  the  iron ; 
then  they  seemed  to  take  some  great  instrument, 
and  pound  against  the  locks.  Again  and  again  the 
blows  were  repeated,  but,  at  last,  there  was  a  crash. 
A  mighty  shout  broke  from  the  people,  and  we  heard 
a  rush.  I  sprang  to  the  door  of  the  Orso's  room, 
and  locked  and  bolted  it,  then,  calling  the  others  to 
help  me,  I  dragged  a  heavy  chest  against  it.  We 
placed  another  chest  on  the  first,  and  dragged  the 
bedstead  up,  pushing  it  against  the  chests. 

We  were  only  just  in  time,  for,  like  water  rushing 
at  once  through  every  crevice,  the  mob  surged  up, 
and  filled  every  corner  of  the  house.  They  came  to 
our  door,  and  pushed  it.  To  their  surprise,  it  did 
not  open.  Outside  some  one  cried : 

"It's  locked!" 

The  hindrance  excited  them,  and  the  crowd  gath- 
ered greater  outside. 

"  Break  it  open,"  they  cried. 

Immediately,  heavy  blows  thundered  down  on  the 
lock  and  handle. 

"  For  God's  sake,  come,"  I  said,  turning  to  Orso. 


282  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

He  did  not  answer.  There  was  no  time  to  lose, 
and  I  could  not  conquer  his  obstinacy. 

"Then  I  shall  force  you,"  I  cried,  catching  hold 
of  both  his  arms,  and  dragging  him  from  the  chair. 
He  held  on  as  tight  as  he  could,  but  his  strength 
was  nothing  against  mine.  I  caught  hold  of  him, 
and  was  lifting  him  in  my  arms,  when  the  door  was 
burst  open.  The  rush  of  people  threw  down  the 
barricade,  and  the  crowd  surged  into  the  room.  It 
was  too  late.  I  made  a  rush  for  the  little  door  with 
Orso,  but  I  could  not  get  to  it.  They  crowded  around 
me  with  a  shout. 

"Take  him,"  I  cried  to  Pietro,  "while  I  defend 
you." 

I  drew  my  sword,  but  immediately  a  bludgeon  fell 
on  it,  and  it  smashed  in  two.  I  gave  a  shout,  and 
rushed  at  my  assailants,  but  it  was  hopeless.  I  felt  a 
crushing  blow  on  my  head.  I  sank  down  insensible. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

WHEN  I  opened  my  eyes  I  found  myself  on  a  bed 
in  a  darkened  room.  By  my  side  was  sitting  a 
woman.  I  looked  at  her,  and  wondered  who  she  was. 

"  Who  the  devil  are  you  ?  "  I  asked,  somewhat  im- 
politely. 

At  the  words  some  one  else  stepped  forward  and 
bent  over  me.  I  recognised  Andrea ;  then  I  recol- 
lected what  had  occurred. 

"  Where  is  the  Orso  ? "   I  asked.     "  Is  he  safe  ? " 

"  Do  you  feel  better  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  am  all  right.  Where  is  the  Orso  ? "  I  tried  to 
sit  up,  but  my  head  swam.  I  felt  horribly  sick,  and 
sank  back. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  I  moaned. 

"  Only  a  broken  head,"  said  Andrea,  with  a  little 
smile.  "  If  you  had  been  a  real  serving-man,  instead 
of  a  fine  gentleman  masquerading,  you  wouldn't  think 
twice  about  it." 

"  Have  pity  on  my  infirmities,  dear  boy,"  I  mur- 
mured, faintly.  "  I  don't  pretend  that  my  head  is  as 
wooden  as  yours." 

283 


284  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

Then  he  explained. 

"  When  you  were  beaten  down  they  made  a  rush 
for  the  old  master  and  bore  him  off." 

"  Oh  ! "  I  cried.  "  I  promised  Checco  to  look  after 
him.  What  will  he  think !  " 

"  It  was  not  your  fault.'*  At  the  same  time  he 
renewed  the  bandages  round  my  head  and  put  cool- 
ing lotions  on. 

"  Good  boy  !  "  I  said,  as  I  enjoyed  the  cold  water 
on  my  throbbing  head. 

"  WThen  I  saw  the  blows  come  down  on  your  head, 
and  you  fall  like  a  stone,  I  thought  you  were  killed. 
With  you  soft-headed  people  one  never  knows !  " 

"  It  appears  to  amuse  you/'  I  said.  "  But  what, 
happened  afterwards  ? " 

"  In  the  excitement  of  their  capture  they  paid  no 
attention  to  us,  and  my  uncle  and  I  dragged  you 
through  the  little  door,  and  eventually  carried  you 
here.  You  are  a  weight !  " 

"  And  where  am  I  ?  " 

"  In  my  mother's  house,  where  you  are  requested 
to  stay  as  long  as  it  suits  your  convenience." 

"  And  Orso  ? " 

"  My  uncle  went  out  to  see,  and  reports  that  they 
have  put  him  in  prison.  As  yet,  no  harm  has  been 
done  him.  The  palace  has  been  sacked ;  nothing 
but  the  bare  walls  remain." 

At  that  moment  Pietro  came  in,  panting. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A    SAINT.  285 

"Two  of  the  conspirators  have  been  taken." 

"  My  God,  not  Checco  or  Matteo  !  " 

"  No  ;  Pietro  Albanese  and  Marco  Scorsacana." 

"  How  did  the  others  escape  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  All  I  heard  was  that  the  horse  of 
Marco  broke  down,  and  Pietro  refused  to  leave  him. 
At  a  village  close  to  the  frontier,  Pietro  was  recog- 
nised, and  they  were  both  arrested  and  sent  here  for 
the  sake  of  the  re  ward. " 

-My  God!" 

"  They  were  brought  into  the  town  on  asses,  with 
their  hands  tied  behind  their  backs,  and  the  mob 
yelled  with  derision,  and  threw  stones  and  refuse  at 
them." 

"  And  now  ? " 

"  They  have  been  taken  to  the  prison,  and  —  " 

"Well?" 

"The  execution  is  to  take  place  to-morrow." 

I  groaned.  Pietro  Albanese  and  Marco  had  been 
like  Damon  and  Pythias.  I  shuddered  as  I  thought 
of  the  fate  in  store  for  them.  They  had  been  con- 
spicuous in  their  hatred  of  the  count,  and  it  was  they 
who  had  helped  to  throw  the  body  into  the  piazza. 
I  knew  there  would  be  no  forgiveness  in  Caterina's 
heart,  and  all  the  night  I  wondered  what  vengeance 
she  was  meditating. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

NEXT  day  I  insisted  on  getting  up.  Andrea  helped 
me  to  dress,  and  we  went  out  together. 

"  No  one  would  mistake  you  for  a  gentleman  to- 
day/' he  laughed. 

My  clothes  were  shabby  enough  in  the  first  in- 
stance, and  in  the  scuffle  of  the  previous  day  they 
had  received  usage  which  did  not  improve  them ; 
moreover,  I  had  a  two  days'  beard,  and  my  head 
muffled  up  in  bandages,  so  that  I  could  well  imagine 
that  my  appearance  was  net  attractive.  But  I  was 
too  sore  at  heart  to  smile  at  his  remark,  or  to  make 
retort.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  terrible 
scene  which  awaited  us. 

We  found  the  piazza  crowded.  Opposite  the 
Riario  Palace  was  erected  a  stage,  on  which  were 
seats,  but  these  were  empty.  The  sky  was  blue, 
the  sun  shone  merrily  on  the  people,  and  the  air  was 
soft  and  warm.  Nature  was  full  of  peace  and  good- 
will ;  but  in  men's  hearts  was  lust  of  blood.  ...  A 
flourish  of  trumpets  announced  the  approach  of 

286 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  287 

Caterina  and  her  suite.  Amid  ringing  cheers  she 
entered  the  square,  accompanied  by  her  half-brother, 
the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  by  the  Protonotary  Savello. 
They  took  their  seats  on  the  platform,  the  duke  on 
her  right,  Savello  on  her  left.  She  turned  to  the 
priest  and  talked  most  amiably  to  him ;  he  smiled 
and  bowed,  but  his  agitation  was  shown  by  the 
twitching  of  his  hands  fidgetting  with  the  lappet 
of  his  cloak. 

A  beating  of  drums  was  heard,  followed  by  a 
sudden  silence.  A  guard  of  soldiers  entered  the 
piazza,  tramping  steadily  with  heavy  footsteps ;  then 
two  steps  behind  them  a  single  figure,  without  a 
doublet,  hatless,  his  shirt  all  torn,  his  hands  tied 
behind  his  back.  It  was  Marco  Scorsacana.  The 
foul  mob  broke  out  into  a  yell  at  the  sight  of  him ; 
he  walked  slowly,  but  with  his  head  proudly  erect, 
paying  no  heed  to  the  hooting  and  hissing  which 
rang  in  his  ears.  On  each  side  walked  a  barefooted 
monk,  bearing  a  crucifix.  .  .  .  He  was  followed  by 
another  troop  of  soldiers,  and  after  them  came 
another  bareheaded  figure,  his  hands  also  tied  be- 
hind his  back ;  but  he  kept  his  head  bent  over  his 
chest,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  shrinking  at 
the  yells  of  derision.  Poor  Pietro  !  He,  too,  was 
accompanied  by  the  solemn  monks ;  the  procession 
was  finished  by  the  drummers,  beating  their  drums 
incessantly,  maddeningly. 


288  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

They  advanced  to  the  platform,  and  there,  the 
soldiers  falling  back,  the  prisoners  were  left  standing 
before  their  judges. 

"  Marco  Scorsacana  and  Pietro  Albanese,"  said  the 
countess,  in  a  clear,  calm  voice,  "you  have  been 
found  guilty  of  murder  and  treason  ;  and  as  it  was 
you  who  cast  the  body  of  my  dear  husband  out  of 
the  Palace  window  on  to  the  hard  stones  of  the 
piazza,  so  you  are  sentenced  to  be  hanged  from  that 
same  window,  and  your  bodies  cast  down  on  to  the 
hard  stones  of  the  piazza." 

A  murmur  of  approval  came  from  the  populace. 
Pietro  winced,  but  Marco  turned  to  him  and  said 
something  which  I  could  not  hear ;  but  I  saw  the 
glance  of  deep  affection,  and  the  answering  smile  of 
Pietro  as  he  seemed  to  take  courage. 

The  countess  turned  to  Savello. 

"  Do  you  not  agree  that  the  judgment  is  just  ? " 

"  Most  just !  "  he  whispered. 

"The  protonotary  says,  '  Most  just ! '  '  she  called 
aloud,  so  that  all  should  hear.  The  man  winced. 

Marco  looked  at  him  scornfully,  and  said,  "  I 
would  ten  times  rather  be  in  my  place  than  in 
yours." 

The  countess  smiled  at  the  priest,  and  said,  "  You 
see,  I  carry  out  the  will  of  God  in  doing  unto  others 
as  they  themselves  have  done." 

She  made  a  sign,  and  the  two  men  were  led  to  the 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  289 

Palace  and  up  the  stairs.  The  window  of  the  Hall 
of  Nymphs  was  thrown  open,  and  a  beam  thrust 
out,  to  which  was  attached  a  rope.  Pietro  appeared 
at  the  window,  with  one  end  of  the  rope  around  his 
neck. 

"  Good-bye,  sweet  friend/'  he  said  to  Marco. 

"  Good-bye,  Pietrino,"  and  Marco  kissed  him. 

Then  two  men  hurled  him  from  the  sill,  and  he 
swung  in  mid-air ;  a  horrible  movement  passed 
through  his  body,  and  it  swayed  from  side  to  side. 
There  was  a  pause;  a  man  stretched  out  with  a 
sword  and  cut  the  rope.  From  the  people  came  a 
huge  shout,  and  they  caught  the  body  as  it  fell,  and 
tore  it  to  pieces.  In  a  few  minutes  Marco  appeared 
at  the  window,  but  he  boldly  sprang  out  into  space, 
needing  no  help.  In  a  little  while  he  was  a  hanging 
corpse,  and  in  a  little  while  more  the  mob  had  fallen 
on  him  like  wolves.  I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands.  It 
was  awful !  O  God  !  O  God  ! 

Then  another  beating  of  drums  broke  through  the 
tumult.  I  looked  up,  wondering  what  was  coming. 
A  troop  of  soldiers  entered  the  square,  and,  after 
them,  an  ass  led  by  a  fool  with  bells  and  bauble ;  on 
the  ass  was  a  miserable  old  man,  Orso  Orsi. 

"Oh,"  I  groaned,  "what  are  they  going  to  do  to 
him  ? " 

A  shout  of  laughter  burst  from  the  mob,  and  the 
clown  flourished  his  bauble  and  bowed  acknowledg- 


2QO  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

ments  from  side  to  side.  A  halt  was  made  before 
the  stage,  and  Caterina  spoke  again. 

"Orso  Orsi,  you  have  been  sentenced  to  see 
your  palace  destroyed  before  your  eyes,  —  stone  by 
stone." 

The  people  shouted,  and  a  rush  was  made  for  the 
Orsi  Palace.  The  old  man  said  nothing  and  showed 
no  sign  of  hearing  or  feeling.  I  hoped  that  all  sen- 
sation had  left  him.  The  procession  moved  on  until 
it  came  to  the  old  house,  which  stood  already  like  a 
wreck,  for  the  pillagers  had  left  nothing  which  could 
be  moved.  Then  the  work  began,  and  stone  by  stone 
the  mighty  building  was  torn  to  pieces.  Orso  looked 
on  indifferently  at  the  terrible  work ;  for  no  greater 
humiliation  can  be  offered  to  the  Italian  nobleman 
than  this.  The  Orsi  Palace  had  stood  three  hundred 
years,  and  the  most  famous  architects,  craftsmen, 
and  artists  had  worked  on  it.  And  now  it  was 
gone. 

The  old  man  was  brought  back  into  the  piazza, 
and  once  more  the  cruel  woman  spoke. 

"  You  have  received  punishment  for  yourself,  Orso, 
and  now  you  are  to  receive  punishment  for  your  son. 
Make  room ! " 

And  the  soldiers,  repeating  her  words,  cried  : 

"  Make  room  !  " 

The  people  were  pushed  and  hustled  back  till  they 
were  crammed  against  the  house  walls,  leaving  in  the 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  2QI 

centre  an  enormous  empty  space.  Then  a  flourish 
of  trumpets,  and  the  people  made  an  opening  at  the 
end  of  the  square  to  allow  the  passage  of  a  horse  and 
man,  the  horse  —  a  huge  black  stallion  —  prancing 
and  plunging ;  and  on  each  side  a  man  was  holding 
the  bridle.  On  his  back  sat  a  big  man,  dressed  all 
in  flaming  red,  and  a  red  hood  covered  his  head  and 
face,  leaving  two  apertures  for  the  eyes.  A  horrified 
whisper  ran  around  the  square. 

"  The  hangman  !  " 

In  the  centre  of  the  piazza  he  stopped.  Caterina 
addressed  the  Orso. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say,  Orso  Orsi  ? " 

At  last  he  seemed  to  hear ;  he  looked  at  her,  and 
then,  with  all  the  strength  he  had,  hurled  the  word 
at  her : 

"  Bastard ! " 

She  flushed  angrily  and  made  a  sign.  Two  men 
seized  the  old  man  and  dragged  him  off  the  mule; 
they  caught  hold  of  his  legs,  throwing  him  to  the 
ground,  and  with  a  thick  rope  tied  his  ankles 
together. 

At  this  I  understood.  I  was  seized  with  sudden 
horror,  and  I  cried  out.  Obeying  a  sudden  impulse, 
I  started  forward ;  I  don't  know  what  I  was  going  to 
do ;  I  felt  I  must  protect  him,  or  die  with  him.  I 
started  forward,  but  Andrea  threw  his  arms  around 
me  and  held  me  back. 


292  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"  Let  me  go,"  I  said,  struggling. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool !  "  he  whispered.  "  What  can 
you  do  against  all  these  ? " 

It  was  no  use ;  I  gave  way.  O  God !  that  I 
should  stand  by  and  see  this  awful  thing  and  be 
utterly  powerless!  I  wondered  the  people  could 
suffer  this  last  atrocity ;  I  thought  they  must  scream, 
and  rush  to  save  the  wretched  man.  But  they 
watched,  —  they  watched  eagerly.  .  .  . 

By  his  feet  they  dragged  him  to  the  horse,  and  the 
end  of  the  rope  around  his  ankles  they  tied  to  the 
horse's  tail  and  about  the  rider's  waist. 

"  Ready  ? "  cried  the  hangman. 

"  Yes  !  "  answered  the  soldiers. 

They  all  sprang  back  ;  the  hangman  dug  the  spurs 
into  his  horse.  The  people  gave  a  huge  shout,  and 
the  fiery  beast  went  careering  around  the  square  at 
full  tilt.  The  awful  burden  dragging  behind  terrified 
him,  and  with  head  strained  forward  and  starting  eyes 
he  galloped  madly.  The  mob  urged  him  on  with 
cries,  and  his  rider  dug  the  spurs  in  deeply ;  the 
pavement  was  scattered  with  blood. 

God  knows  how  long  the  wretched  man  lived.  I 
hope  he  died  at  once.  At  last  the  brute's  furious 
career  was  stopped,  the  ropes  were  cut,  the  corpse 
fell  back,  and,  the  people  again  making  passage,  horse 
and  rider  disappeared.  In  the  middle  of  the  piazza, 
in  a  pool  of  blood,  lay  a  shapeless  mass.  It  was 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  293 

ordered  that  it  should  be  left  there  till  nightfall  as 
an  example  to  evildoers. 

Andrea  wanted  to  come  away,  but  I  insisted  on 
staying  to  see  what  happened  more.  But  it  was  the 
end,  for  Caterina  turned  to  Savello,  and  said : 

"  I  do  not  forget  that  all  power  comes  from  God, 
Monsignor,  and  I  wish  solemnly  to  render  thanks  to 
the  Divine  Majesty,  who  has  saved  me,  my  children, 
and  the  State.  Therefore,  I  shall  order  a  grand 
procession  which  shall  march  around  the  town  and 
afterwards  hear  mass  at  the  cathedral." 

"It  shows,  madam,"  replied  Savello,  "that  you 
are  a  pious  and  truly  Christian  woman." 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

WHEN  it  was  night,  and  the  piazza  deserted, 
Andrea  and  I  and  the  old  steward  went  out  and 
made  our  way  to  the  place  where  the  horrible  corpse 
was  lying.  We  wrapped  it  in  a  long  black  cloth  and 
took  it  up  silently,  bearing  it  to  the  church  where  for 
generations  the  Orsi  had  been  buried.  A  dark-robed 
monk  met  us  in  the  nave  and  led  the  way  to  a  door, 
which  he  opened;  then,  as  if  frightened,  left  us.  We 
found  ourselves  in  the  cloisters.  We  laid  the  body 
down  under  an  arch  and  advanced  into  the  centre, 
where  was  a  plot  of  green  scattered  over  with  little 
crosses.  We  took  spades  and  began  to  dig ;  a  thin 
rain  drizzled  down,  and  the  ground  was  stiff  and 
clayey.  It  was  hard  work  and  I  sweated ;  I  took  off 
my  coat  and  allowed  the  rain  to  fall  on  me  unpro- 
tected ;  I  was  soon  wet  to  the  skin.  Silently  Andrea 
and  I  turned  up  the  soil,  while  Pietro,  beneath  the 
cloisters,  watched  by  the  body  and  prayed.  We  were 
knee-deep  now,  and  still  we  threw  up  heavy  spadefuls 
of  clay.  At  last  I  said  : 

"  It  is  enough.1' 

294 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

We  climbed  out  and  went  to  the  body.  We  took 
it  up  and  bore  it  to  the  grave,  and  reverently  we  laid 
it  in.  Pietro  placed  a  crucifix  on  the  old  master's 
breast,  and  then  we  began  to  pile  in  the  earth. 

And  so,  without  priests,  without  mourning,  in  the 
dead  of  night,  and  by  the  drizzling  rain,  was  buried 
Orso  Orsi,  the  great  head  of  the  family.  In  his 
time  he  had  been  excellent  in  war  and  in  all  the 
arts  of  peace.  He  had  been  noted  for  his  skill  in 
commerce ;  in  politics  he  had  been  the  first  of  his 
city,  and,  besides,  he  had  been  a  great  and  generous 
patron  of  the  arts.  But  he  lived  too  long,  and  died 
thus  miserably. 

Next  day  I  set  about  thinking  what  I  should  do. 
I  could  be  of  no  more  use  to  any  one  in  Forli ; 
indeed,  I  had  never  been  of  use,  for  I  had  only 
stood  by  and  watched  while  those  I  loved  and 
honoured  were  being  put  to  cruel  deaths.  And  now 
I  must  see  that  my  presence  did  not  harm  my  kind 
hosts.  Caterina  had  thrown  into  prison  some  fifty 
of  those  who  had  taken  part  in  the  rebellion,  not- 
withstanding her  solemn  promise  of  amnesty,  and  I 
knew  well  enough  that,  if  I  were  discovered,  Pietro 
and  Andrea  would  suffer  as  severe  a  punishment  as 
myself.  They  gave  no  sign  that  my  presence  was 
a  menace  to  them,  but  in  the  woman's  eyes,  Andrea's 
mother,  I  saw  an  anxious  look,  and  at  any  unex- 
pected sound  she  would  start  and  look  fearfully  at 


296  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

me.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  immediately.  When 
I  told  Andrea,  he  insisted  on  coming  with  me,  and, 
although  I  painted  the  danger  in  lively  colours,  he 
would  not  be  dissuaded.  The  next  day  was  market- 
day,  and  we  resolved  to  slip  out  in  a  cart  as  soon 
as  the  gates  were  opened.  We  would  be  taken 
for  tradesmen,  and  no  one  would  pay  attention 
to  us. 

I  was  anxious  to  see  what  was  happening  in  the 
town  and  what  people  were  talking  of ;  but  I  thought 
it  prudent  not  to  venture  out,  for  my  disguise  might 
be  seen  through,  and  if  I  were  discovered  I  knew 
well  what  to  expect.  So  I  sat  at  home  twiddling 
my  thumbs  and  chattering  with  Andrea.  At  last, 
getting  tired  of  doing  nothing,  and  seeing  the  good 
woman  about  to  scrub  out  her  courtyard,  I  volun- 
teered to  do  it  for  her.  I  got  a  broom  and  a  pail 
of  water  and  began  sweeping  away  vigorously, 
while  Andrea  stood  in  the  doorway  scoffing.  For 
a  little  while  I  forgot  the  terrible  scene  in  the 
piazza. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  We  stopped  and 
listened ;  the  knock  was  repeated,  and  as  no  answer 
was  given,  the  latch  was  raised  and  the  door  opened. 
A  servant-maid  walked  in  and  carefully  closed  it  be- 
hind her.  I  recognised  her  at  once;  it  was  Giulia's 
maid.  I  shrank  back,  and  Andrea  stood  in  front  of 
me.  His  mother  went  forward. 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  297 

"  And  pray,  madam,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ? " 

The  maid  did  not  answer,  but  stepped  past  her. 

"  There  is  a  serving-man  here  for  whom  I  have 
a  message." 

She  came  straight  towards  me,  and  handed  me  a 
piece  of  paper ;  then,  without  another  word,  slid  back 
to  the  door  and  slipped  out. 

The  note  contained  four  words,  "  Come  to  me  to- 
night," and  the  handwriting  was  Giulia's.  A  strange 
feeling  came  over  me  as  I  looked  at  it,  and  my 
hand  trembled  a  little.  .  .  .  Then  I  began  ponder- 
ing. Why  did  she  want  me?  I  could  not  think, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  she  wished  to 
give  me  up  to  the  countess.  I  knew  she  hated  me, 
but  I  could  not  think  her  as  vile  as  that ;  after  all, 
she  was  her  father's  daughter,  and  Bartolomeo  was  a 
gentleman.  Andrea  looked  at  me,  questioningly. 

"  It  is  an  invitation  from  my  greatest  enemy  to 
put  myself  in  her  hands. " 

"  But  you  will  not  ?  " 

"Yes/'  I  said,  "I  will/' 

"Why?" 

"Because  it  is  a  woman." 

"  But  do  you  think  she  would  betray  you  ? " 

"She  might." 

"  And  you  are  going  to  take  the  risk  ? " 

"  I  think  I  should  be  glad  to  prove  her  so  utterly 
worthless," 


298  THE   MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

Andrea  looked  at  me,  open-mouthed  ;  he  could  not 
understand.     An  idea  struck  him. 
"  Are  you  in  love  with  her  ?  " 
"No;  I  was." 
"And  now?" 
"  Now,  I  do  not  even  hate  her." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE  night  came,  and  when  every  one  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  the  town  was  quiet,  I  said  to  Andrea,  "Wait 
for  me  here,  and  if  I  do  not  come  back  in  two  hours 
you  will  know  —  " 

He  interrupted  me. 

"I  am  coming  with  you." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  I  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  dan- 
ger there  may  be,  and  there  is  no  object  in  your 
exposing  yourself  to  it." 

"Where  you  go,  I  will  go,  too." 

I  argued  with  him,  but  he  was  an  obstinate  youth. 
.  .  .  We  walked  along  the  dark  streets,  running  like 
thieves  around  corners  when  we  heard  the  heavy 
footsteps  of  the  watch.  The  Palazzo  Aste  was  all 
dark ;  we  waited  outside  a  little  while,  but  no  one 
came,  and  I  dared  not  knock.  Then  I  remembered 
the  side  door.  I  still  had  the  key,  and  I  took  it 
from  my  pocket. 

"Wait  outside,"  I  said  to  Andrea. 

"  No,  I  am  coming  with  you." 

"  Perhaps  there  is  an  ambush." 
299 


3OO  THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

"Two  are  more  likely  to  escape  than  one." 

I  put  the  key  in  the  lock,  and,  as  I  did  so,  my 
heart  beat  and  my  hand  trembled,  but  not  with  fear. 
The  key  turned,  and  I  pushed  the  door  open.  We 
entered,  and  walked  up  the  stairs.  Sensations  which 
I  had  forgotten  crowded  upon  me,  and  my  heart 
turned  sick.  .  .  .  We  came  to  an  anteroom  dimly 
lit.  I  signed  to  Andrea  to  wait,  and  myself  passed 
into  the  room  I  knew  too  well.  It  was  that  in  which 
I  had  last  seen  Giulia, — the  Giulia  I  had  loved,— 
and  nothing  was  altered  in  it.  The  same  couch  stood 
in  the  centre,  and  on  it  lay  Giulia,  sleeping.  She 
started  up. 

"  Filippo ! " 

"  At  your  service,  madam/* 

"  Lucia  recognised  you  in  the  street  yesterday, 
and  she  followed  you  to  the  house  in  which  you  are 
staying." 

"Yes." 

"  My  father  sent  me  a  message  that  you  were  still 
here,  and,  if  I  wanted  help,  would  give  it  me." 

"  I  will  do  whatever  I  can  for  you," 

What  a  fool  I  was  to  come !  My  head  was  in  a 
whirl,  my  heart  was  bursting.  My  God !  she  was 
beautiful !  I  looked  at  her,  and  suddenly  I  knew 
that  all  the  dreary  indifference  I  had  built  up  had 
melted  away  at  the  first  look  into  her  eyes.  And  I 
was  terrified.  .  .  .  My  love  was  not  dead ;  it  was 


.       THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  30 1 

alive,  alive !  Oh,  how  I  adored  that  woman !  I 
burned  to  take  her  in  my  arms,  and  cover  her  soft 
mouth  with  kisses. 

Oh,  why  had  I  come  ?  I  was  mad.  I  cursed  my 
weakness.  .  .  .  And,  when  I  saw  her  standing  there, 
cold  and  indifferent  as  ever,  I  felt  so  furious  a  rage 
within  me  that  I  could  have  killed  her.  And  I  felt 
sick  with  love.  .  .  . 

"  Messer  Filippo,"  she  said,  "will  you  help  me 
now  ?  I  have  been  warned  by  one  of  the  countess's 
women  that  the  guard  have  orders  to  arrest  me  to- 
morrow ;  and  I  know  what  the  daughter  of  Barto- 
lomeo  Moratini  may  expect.  I  must  fly  to-night,  — 
at  once." 

"  I  will  help  you,"  I  answered. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ? " 

"  I  can  disguise  you  as  a  common  woman.  The 
mother  of  my  friend  Andrea  will  lend  you  clothes ; 
and  Andrea  and  I  will  accompany  you.  Or,  if  you 
prefer,  after  we  have  safely  passed  the  gates,  he  shall 
accompany  you  alone,  wherever  you  wish  to  go." 

"  Why  will  you  not  come  ?  " 

"I  feared  my  presence  would  make  the  journey 
more  tedious  to  you." 

"  And  to  you  ? " 

"  To  me  it  would  be  a  matter  of  complete  indiffer- 
ence." 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment,  then  she  cried : 


3O2  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  No,  I  will  not  come !  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  you  hate  me." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  I  should  have  thought  my  sentiments  were  of  no 
consequence." 

"  I  will  not  be  helped  by  you.  You  hate  me  too 
much.  I  will  stay  in  Forli." 

"  You  are  your  own  mistress.  .  .  .  Why  do  you 
mind  ?  " 

"  Why  do  I  mind  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  "  She  came 
close  up  to  me.  "  Because  —  because  I  love  you." 

My  head  swam,  and  I  felt  myself  stagger.  ...  I 
did  not  know  what  was  happening. 

"  Filippo ! " 

"  Giulia ! " 

I  opened  my  arms,  and  she  fell  into  them,  and  I 
held  her  close  to  my  heart,  and  I  covered  her  with 
kisses.  ...  I  covered  her  mouth  and  eyes  and  neck 
with  kisses. 

"Giulia!  Giulia!" 

But  I  wrenched  myself  away,  and,  taking  hold  of 
her  shoulders,  said,  almost  savagely : 

"  But  this  time  I  must  have  you  altogether. 
Swear  that  you  will  — " 

She  lifted  her  sweet  face  and  smiled,  and  nestling 
close  up  to  me,  whispered  ; 

"  Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  303 

I  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  I  loved  you  always,"  I  said.  "  I  tried  to  hate 
you,  but  I  could  not.'* 

"  Do  you  remember  that  night  at  the  Palace  ? 
You  said  you  had  never  cared  for  me." 

"Ah,  yes  !    but  you  did  not  believe  me." 

"  I  felt  it  was  not  true,  but  I  did  not  know ;  and  it 
pained  me.  And  then,  Claudia  —  " 

"  I  was  so  angry  with  you,  I  would  have  done 
anything  to  revenge  myself ;  but  still  I  loved 
you." 

"  But  Claudia  —  you  loved  her,  too  ? " 

"No,"  I  protested,  "  I  hated  her  and  despised  her ; 
but  I  tried  to  forget  you  ;  and  I  wanted  you  to  feel 
certain  that  I  no  longer  cared  for  you." 

"  I  hate  her." 

"  Forgive  me,"  I  said. 

"  I  forgive  you  everything,"  she  answered. 

I  kissed  her  passionately ;  and  I  did  not  remember 
that  I  too  had  something  to  forgive. 

The  time  flew  on,  and  when  a  ray  of  light  pierced 
through  the  windows  I  started  up  in  surprise. 

"We  must  make  haste,"  I  said.  I  went  into  the 
anteroom  and  found  Andrea  fast  asleep.  I  shook 
him. 

"At  what  time  do  the  gates  open?"  I  asked. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and,  on  a  repetition  of  the 
question,  answered,  "Five!" 


304  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

It  was  half  past  four ;  we  had  no  time  to  lose.  I 
thought  for  a  minute.  Andrea  would  have  to  go  to 
his  mother's  arid  find  the  needful  clothes,  then  come 
back  ;  it  would  all  take  time,  and  time  meant  life  and 
death.  Then,  the  sight  of  a  young  and  beautiful 
woman  might  arouse  the  guard's  attention,  and 
Giulia  might  be  recognised. 

An  idea  struck  me. 

"  Undress  !  "  I  said  to  Andrea. 

"What?" 

"  Undress !     Quickly/' 

He  looked  at  me  blankly  ;  I  signed  to  him,  and,  as 
he  was  not  rapid  enough,  I  tore  off  his  coat ;  then  he 
understood,  and  in  a  minute  he  was  standing  in  his 
shirt  while  I  had  walked  off  with  his  clothes.  I 
handed  them  to  Giulia  and  came  back.  Andrea  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  very  picture 
of  misery.  He  looked  very  ridiculous. 

"Look  here,  Andrea/'  I  said.  "I  have  given 
your  clothes  to  a  lady,  who  is  going  to  accompany 
me,  instead  of  you.  Do  you  see  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  You  can  stay  with  your  mother  for  the  present, 
and  then,  if  you  like,  you  can  join  me  at  my  house 
in  Citta  di  Castello." 

"And  now?" 

"  Oh,  now  you  can  go  home." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  looked  at  me,  dubiously, 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  30$ 

then  at  his  bare  legs  and  his  shirt,  then  again  at  me. 
I  pretended  not  to  understand. 

"  You  seem  troubled,  my  dear  Andrea.  What  is 
the  matter  ? " 

He  pointed  to  his  shirt. 

"Well?"  I  said. 

"  It  is  usual  to  go  about  in  clothes." 

"A  broad-minded  youth  like  you  should  be  free 
from  such  prejudice,"  I  answered,  gravely.  "On 
such  a  morning  you  will  find  life  much  pleasanter 
without  hose  and  doublet." 

"  Common  decency  —  " 

"My  dear  boy,  are  you  not  aware  that  our  first 
parents  were  content  with  fig-leaves,  and  are  you  not 
satisfied  with  a  whole  shirt  ?  Besides,  have  you  not 
a  fine  pair  of  legs  and  a  handsome  body ;  what  are 
you  ashamed  of  ? " 

"  Every  one  will  follow  me." 

"  All  the  more  reason  to  have  something  to  show 
them." 

"  The  guard  will  lock  me  up." 

"  How  will  the  jailor's  daughter  be  able  to  resist 
you  in  that  costume  ? " 

Then  another  idea  struck  me,  and  I  said : 

"Well,  Andrea,  I  am  grieved  to  find  you  of  so 
unpoetical  a  turn  of  mind ;  but  I  will  deny  you 
nothing."  I  went  to  Giulia,  and  taking  the  clothes 
she  had  just  cast  off,  brought  them  to  Andrea. 


306  THE   MAKING   OF  A    SAINT. 

"There!  " 

He  gave  a  cry  of  delight,  but,  on  seizing  them  and 
discovering  petticoats  and  flounces,  his  face  fell.  I 
leant  against  the  wall  and  laughed  till  my  sides 
ached. 

Then  Giulia  appeared,  a  most  fascinating  serving- 
boy.  .  .  . 

"  Good-bye/'  I  cried,  and  hurried  down  the  stairs. 
We  marched  boldly  to  the  city  gate,  and,  with  beat- 
ing hearts  and  innocent  countenances,  passed  through 
and  found  ourselves  in  the  open  country. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

THE  Orsi  and  the  Moratini  had  taken  my  advice 
and  gone  to  Citta  di  Castello ;  so  it  was  to  that  city 
we  directed  our  way,  and  eventually  reached  it  in 
safety,  I  did  not  know  where  Bartolomeo  Moratini 
was,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  take  Giulia  to  my  own 
house,  so  I  placed  her  in  a  Benedictine  convent,  the 
superior  of  which,  on  hearing  my  name,  promised  to 
give  her  guest  every  care. 

Then  I  went  to  the  old  palace,  which  I  had  not 
seen  for  so  many  years.  I  had  been  too  excited  to 
get  really  home  to  notice  anything  of  the  streets  as 
I  passed  through  them  ;  but  as  I  came  in  view  of  the 
well-remembered  walls,  I  stopped,  overcome  with 
strange  emotions.  ...  I  remembered  the  day  when 
news  had  been  brought  me  that  the  old  Vitelli,  who 
was  then  ruler  of  Castello,  had  murmured  certain 
things  about  me  which  caused  my  neck  to  itch  un- 
comfortably, —  and,  upon  this,  I  had  entrusted  my 
little  brother  to  a  relative,  who  was  one  of  the  canons 
of  the  cathedral,  and  the  palace  to  my  steward,  and, 
mounting  my  horse,  ridden  off  with  all  possible  haste. 

307 


308  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

I  had  supposed  that  a  few  months  would  calm  the 
angry  Vitelli,  but  the  months  had  lengthened  out 
into  years,  and  his  death  had  come  before  his  for- 
giveness. But  now  I  really  was  back,  and  I  did  not 
mean  to  go  away ;  my  travels  had  taught  me  caution, 
and  my  intrigues  at  Forli  given  me  enough  excite- 
ment for  some  time.  Besides,  I  was  going  to  marry, 
and  rear  a  family ;  for,  as  if  Fortune  could  not  give 
scantily,  I  had  gained  a  love  as  well  as  a  home,  and 
everything  I  wished  was  granted. 

My  meditations  were  interrupted. 

"  Corpo  di  Bacco  /" 

It  was  Matteo,  and  in  a  moment  I  was  in  his  arms. 

"  I  was  just  asking  myself  what  that  fool  was  star- 
ing at  this  house  for,  and  thinking  of  telling  him  it 
was  impolite  to  stare,  when  I  recognised  the  horse's 
owner/' 

I  laughed,  and  shook  his  hand  again. 

"  Well,  Filippo,  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  very  pleased 
to  offer  you  hospitality." 

"  You  are  most  kind." 

"  We  have  annexed  the  whole  place,  but  I  daresay 
you  will  be  able  to  find  room  somewhere.  But 
come  in." 

"  Thanks,"  I  said,  "  if  you  do  not  mind." 

I  found  Checco,  Bartolomeo,  and  his  two  sons 
sitting  together.  They  jumped  up  when  they  saw  me. 

"  What  news  ?     What  news  ?  "  they  asked. 


THE   MAKING   OF  A    SAINT.  309 

Then  suddenly  I  remembered  the  terrible  story 
I  had  to  tell,  for  in  my  own  happiness  I  had  for- 
gotten everything  that  went  before.  I  suddenly 
became  grave. 

"  Bad  news,"  I  said.     "Bad  news." 

"  O  God  !  I  have  been  foreboding  it.  Every  night 
I  have  dreamed  awful  things." 

"  Checco,"  I  answered,  "  I  have  done  all  I  could ; 
but,  alas !  it  has  been  of  no  avail.  You  left  me  as 
a  protector,  and  I  have  been  able  to  protect  no  one." 

"  Go  on  !  " 

Then  I  began  my  story.  I  told  them  how  the 
council  had  opened  the  gates,  surrendering  uncon- 
ditionally, and  how  the  countess  had  sallied  forth 
in  triumph.  That  was  nothing.  If  there  had  been 
no  worse  news  for  them  than  that !  But  Checco 
clenched  his  hands  as  I  related  the  sacking  of  his 
palace.  And  I  told  him  how  old  Orso  had  refused 
to  fly,  and  had  been  seized,  while  I  had  lain  senseless 
on  the  floor. 

"  You  did  your  best,  Filippo,"  said  Checco.  "  You 
could  do  nothing  more.  But  afterwards  ?  " 

I  told  them  how  Marco  Scorsacana  and  Pietro 
had  been  taken  prisoners,  and  led  into  the  town  like 
thieves  caught  in  the  act ;  how  the  crowd  had  gath- 
ered together,  and  how  they  had  been  brought  to 
the  square  and  hanged  from  the  Palace  window,  and 
their  bodies  torn  to  pieces  by  the  people. 


310  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  O  God  !  "  uttered  Checco.  "And  all  this  is  my 
fault ! " 

I  told  them  that  the  old  Orso  was  brought  forward 
and  taken  to  his  palace,  and  before  his  eyes  it  was 
torn  down,  stone  after  stone,  till  only  a  heap  of  ruins 
marked  the  site. 

Checco  gave  a  sob. 

"  My  palace,  my  home  !  " 

And  then,  as  if  the  blow  was  too  great,  he  bent 
his  head  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Do  not  weep  yet,  Checco,"  I  said.  "You  will 
have  cause  for  tears,  presently. " 

He  looked  up. 

"  What  more  ? " 

"Your  father." 

"  Filippo !  " 

He  started  up,  and,  stepping  back,  stood  against 
the  wall,  his  arms  against  it,  outstretched,  with  white 
and  haggard  face  and  staring  eyes,  like  a  hunted 
beast  at  bay. 

I  told  him  how  they  had  taken  his  father  and 
bound  him,  and  thrown  him  down,  and  tied  him  to 
the  savage  beast,  and  how  he  had  been  dragged 
along  till  his  blood  spattered  on  the  pavement  and 
his  soul  left  him. 

Checco  uttered  a  most  awful  groan,  and,  looking 
up  to  heaven,  as  if  to  call  it  in  witness,  cried : 

"OGod!" 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  3 1 1 

Then,  sinking  into  a  chair,  he  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands,  and  in  his  agony  swayed  from  side  to 
side.  Matteo  went  up  to  him  and  put  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  trying  to  comfort  him  ;  but  he  motioned 
him  aside. 

"  Let  me  be." 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  we  saw  that  his  eyes 
were  tearless,  for  his  grief  was  too  great  for  weeping. 
Then,  with  his  hands  before  him  like  a  blind  man, 
he  staggered  to  the  door  and  left  us. 

Scipione,  the  weak  man,  was  crying. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

ONE  does  not  really  feel  much  grief  at  other 
people's  sorrows  ;  one  tries,  and  puts  on  a  melancholy 
face,  —  thinking  oneself  brutal  for  not  caring  more ; 
but  one  cannot,  and  it  is  better,  for  if  one  grieved 
too  deeply  at  other  people's  tears,  life  would  be  un- 
endurable ;  and  every  man  has  sufficient  sorrows  of 
his  own  without  taking  to  heart  his  neighbour's.  The 
explanation  of  all  this  is  that,  three  days  after  my 
return  to  Citta  di  Castello,  I  was  married  to  Giulia. 

Now  I  remember  nothing  more.  I  have  a  con- 
fused idea  of  great  happiness ;  I  lived  in  an  intoxica- 
tion, half  fearing  it  was  all  a  dream,  enchanted  when 
anything  occurred  to  assure  me  it  was  true.  But  the 
details  of  our  life  I  have  forgotten ;  I  remember  I 
was  happy.  Is  it  not  a  curious  irony  that  we  should 
recall  our  miseries  with  such  plainness,  and  that  our 
happiness  should  pass  over  us  so  indistinctly  that, 
when  it  has  gone,  we  can  scarcely  realise  that  it  ever 
existed  ?  It  is  as  though  Fortune  were  jealous  of  the 
little  happiness  she  has  given  us,  and,  to  revenge  her- 

312 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  313 

self,  blots  it  out  of  the  memory,  filling  the  mind  with 
miseries  past. 

But  some  things  I  recollect  about  others.  I  came 
across  Ercole  Piacentini  and  his  wife  Claudia.  Castello 
being  his  native  place,  he  had  gone  there  on  the  death 
of  the  count ;  and  now,  although  the  Riarii  were  re- 
stored to  power,  he  remained,  presumably  to  watch 
our  movements  and  report  them  at  Forli.  I  inquired 
who  he  was,  and  after  some  difficulty  discovered 
that  he  was  the  bastard  of  a  Castello  nobleman  and 
the  daughter  of  a  tradesman.  I  saw  that  he  did  not 
lie  when  he  said  he  had  in  his  veins  as  good  blood  as 
I.  Still  I  did  not  think  him  a  very  desirable  acquisi- 
tion to  the  town,  and,  as  I  was  in  some  favour  with 
the  new  lord,  I  determined  to  procure  his  expulsion. 
Matteo  proposed  picking  a  quarrel  with  him  and 
killing  him,  but  that  was  difficult,  because  the  bold 
man  had  become  singularly  retiring,  and  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  meet  him.  The  change  was  so  notice- 
able that  we  could  not  help  thinking  he  had  received 
special  instructions  from  Forli,  and  we  determined  to 
take  care. 

I  invited  the  Moratini  to  live  with  me,  but  they 
preferred  to  take  a  house  of  their  own.  The  old 
man,  when  I  asked  him  for  his  daughter's  hand,  told 
me  he  wished  no  better  son-in-law,  and  was  very  con- 
tented to  see  his  daughter  again  settled  under  a  man's 
protection.  Scipione  and  Alessandro  were  both  most 


314  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

pleased,  and  they  redoubled  the  affection  they  had 
felt  for  me  before.  It  all  made  me  extremely  happy, 
for,  after  my  long  years  of  wandering,  I  yearned  very 
much  for  the  love  of  others,  and  the  various  affec- 
tions that  surrounded  me  soothed  and  comforted  me. 
From  Giulia  I  could  ask  for  nothing  more,  and  I 
thought  she  really  loved  me,  —  of  course  not  as  I 
loved  her,  for  that  would  have  been  impossible ;  but 
I  was  happy.  Sometimes  I  wondered  perplexedly  at 
the  incident  which  had  separated  us,  for  I  could 
understand  nothing  of  it ;  but  I  put  it  away  from 
me.  I  did  not  want  to  understand ;  I  wanted  only 
to  forget. 

Then  there  were  Checco  and  Matteo.  The  Orsi 
family  had  bought  a  palace  in  Castello,  and  there 
they  could  have  settled  themselves  harjpily  enough 
had  they  not  been  driven  on  by  an  unextinguishable 
desire  to  regain  what  they  had  lost.  Checco  was 
rich  even  now,  able  to  live  as  luxuriously  as  before, 
and  in  a  little  while  he  might  have  gained  in  Castello 
as  much  power  as  he  had  lost  in  Forli,  for  the  young 
Vitelli  had  been  singularly  attracted  by  him,  and  was 
already  inclined  to  give  trust  to  his  counsels,  but  the 
wretched  man  was  filled  with  sadness.  All  day  his 
thoughts  were  in  the  town  he  loved  so  well,  and  now 
his  love  was  increased  tenfold.  .  .  .  Sometimes  he 
would  think  of  Forli  before  the  troubles,  when  he 
was  living  a  peaceful  life  surrounded  by  his  friends, 


THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  315 

and  in  mind  he  wandered  through  the  quiet  streets, 
every  house  of  which  he  knew.  He  would  go  from 
room  to  room  in  his  palace,  looking  at  the  pictures, 
the  statues,  the  armour  ;  from  the  window  at  night 
he  gazed  upon  the  dark,  silent  town,  with  the  houses 
rising  like  tall  phantoms ;  in  the  morning  a  silver 
mist  covered  the  earth,  and  as  it  rose  left  the  air  cool 
and  fresh.  But  when  his  house  appeared  before  him, 
a  bare  heap  of  ruins,  with  the  rain  beating  down  on 
the  roofless  stones,  he  would  bury  his  face  in  his 
hands,  and  so  remain  during  long  hours  of  misery. 
Sometimes  he  would  review  the  stirring  events,  which 
began  with  the  attempted  assassination  of  himself  and 
ended  with  the  ride  out  of  the  gate  by  the  river  in 
the  cold  open  country  beyond,  and,  as  they  passed 
before  him,  he  would  wonder  what  he  had  done 
wrong,  what  he  might  have  done  differently.  But 
he  could  alter  nothing ;  he  saw  no  mistake  other 
than  of  trusting  the  populace  who  vowed  to  follow 
him  to  death,  and  of  trusting  the  friends  who  prom- 
ised to  send  him  help.  He  had  done  his  part,  and 
what  had  followed  was  impossible  to  foresee.  For- 
tune was  against  him,  and  that  was  all.  .  .  . 

But  he  did  not  entirely  give  himself  over  to  vain 
regrets  ;  he  had  opened  up  communication  with  Forli, 
and,  through  his  spies,  had  learnt  that  the  countess 
had  imprisoned  and  put  to  death  all  those  who  had 
been  in  any  way  connected  with  the  rebellion,  and 


316  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

that  the  town  lay  cowed,  submissive  as  a  whipped 
dog.  And  there  was  no  hope  for  Checco  from  with- 
in, for  his  open  partisans  had  suffered  terrible  pun- 
ishments, and  the  others  were  few  and  timid.  Then 
Checco  turned  his  attention  to  the  rival  States ;  but 
everywhere  he  received  rebuffs,  for  the  power  of 
Milan  overshadowed  them  all,  and  they  dared  noth- 
ing while  the  Duke  Lodovicowas  almighty.  "Wait," 
they  said,  "till  he  has  roused  the  jealousy  of  the 
greater  States  of  Florence  and  Venice ;  then  will  be 
your  opportunity,  and  then  will  we  willingly  give  you 
our  help.'*  But  Checco  could  not  wait ;  every  lost 
day  seemed  to  him  a  year.  He  grew  thin  and  hag- 
gard. Matteo  tried  to  comfort  him,  but  gradually 
Checco's  troubles  weighed  on  him,  too ;  he  lost  his 
mirth  and  became  as  moody  and  silent  as  his  cousin. 
So  passed  a  year,  full  of  anxiety  and  heartburning 
for  them,  full  of  the  sweetest  happiness  for  me. 

One  day  Checco  came  to  me  and  said : 

"  Filippo,  you  have  been  very  good  to  me ;  now  I 
want  you  to  do  me  one  more  favour,  and  that  shall 
be  the  last  I  will  ask  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

Then  he  expounded  to  me  a  scheme  for  interesting 
the  Pope  in  his  affairs.  He  knew  how  angry  his 
Holiness  had  been,  not  only  at  the  loss  of  the  town, 
but  also  at  the  humiliation  he  had  received  through 
his  lieutenant.  There  was  a  difficulty  at  the  time 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  317 

between  the  Duke  of  Milan  and  Rome  respecting 
certain  rights  of  the  former,  and  he  did  not  think  it 
unlikely  that  the  Pope  would  be  willing  to  break  off 
negotiations  and  recover  his  advantage  by  making 
a  sudden  attack  on  Forli.  Caterina's  tyranny  had 
become  insupportable,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that 
at  the  sight  of  Checco  leading  the  papal  army  they 
would  open  their  gates  and  welcome  him  as  the 
Pope's  representative. 

I  did  not  see  of  what  use  I  could  be,  and  I  was 
very  unwilling  to  leave  my  young  wife.  But  Checco 
was  so  anxious  that  I  should  come,  seeming  to  think 
I  should  be  of  such  assistance,  that  I  felt  it  would 
be  cruel  to  refuse.  Moreover,  I  reckoned  a  month 
would  bring  me  back  to  Castello,  and  if  the  parting 
was  bitter,  how  sweet  would  be  the  return !  And  I 
had  certain  business  of  my  own  in  Rome,  which 
I  had  delayed  for  months  because  I  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  separation  from  Giulia.  So  I  decided 
to  go. 

A  few  days  later  we  were  riding  towards  Rome. 
I  was  sad,  for  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  left  my  wife 
since  our  marriage,  and  the  parting  had  been  even 
more  painful  than  I  expected.  A  thousand  times 
I  had  been  on  the  verge  of  changing  my  mind  and 
saying  I  would  not  go  ;  but  I  could  not,  for  Checco's 
sake.  I  was  also  a  little  sad  because  I  thought 
Giulia  was  not  so  pained  as  I  was,  but  then  I  chid 


31 8  THE  MAKING   OF  A    SAINT. 

myself  for  my  folly.  I  expected  too  much.  After 
all,  it  was  only  four  short  weeks,  and  she  was  still 
too  great  a  child  to  feel  very  deeply.  It  is  only  when 
one  is  old,  or  has  greatly  suffered,  that  one's  emotions 
are  really  powerful. 

We  reached  Rome  and  set  about  soliciting  an 
audience  from  the  Pope,  I  cannot  remember  the 
countless  interviews  we  had  with  minor  officials,  how 
we  were  driven  from  cardinal  to  cardinal,  the  hours 
we  spent  in  anterooms  waiting  for  a  few  words  from 
some  great  man.  I  used  to  get  so  tired  that  I  could 
have  dropped  off  to  sleep  standing,  but  Checco  was 
so  full  of  eagerness  that  I  had  to  accompany  him 
from  place  to  place.  The  month  passed,  and  we  had 
done  nothing.  I  suggested  going  home,  but  Checco 
implored  me  to  stay,  assuring  me  that  the  business 
would  be  finished  in  a  fortnight.  I  remained,  and 
the  negotiations  dragged  their  weary  length  through 
weeks  and  weeks.  Now  a  ray  of  hope  lighted  our 
struggles,  and  Checco  would  become  excited  and 
cheerful ;  now  the  hope  would  be  dashed  to  the 
ground,  and  Checco  begin  to  despair.  The  month 
had  drawn  itself  out  into  three,  and  I  saw  clearly 
enough  that  nothing  would  come  of  our  endeavours. 
The  conferences  with  the  duke  were  still  going  on, 
each  party  watching  the  other,  trying  by  means  of 
untruth  and  deceit  and  bribery  to  gain  the  advantage. 
The  King  of  Naples  was  brought  in ;  Florence  and 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  319 

Venice  began  to  send  ambassadors  to  and  fro,  and  no 
one  knew  what  would  be  the  result  of  it  all. 

At  last,  one  day,  Checco  came  to  me,  and  threw 
himself  on  my  bed. 

"  It's  no  good,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  despair.  "  It 
is  all  up." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Checco." 

"  You  had  better  go  home  now.  You  can  do 
nothing  here.  Why  should  I  drag  you  after  me  in 
my  unhappiness  ? " 

"  But  you,  Checco,  if  you  can  do  no  good,  why  will 
not  you  come,  too  ? " 

"  I  am  better  here  than  at  Castello.  Here  I  am 
at  the  centre  of  things,  and  I  will  take  heart.  War 
may  break  out  any  day,  and  then  the  Pope  will  be 
more  ready  to  listen  to  me." 

I  saw  it  was  no  use  that  I  should  stay,  and  I  saw 
I  could  not  persuade  him  to  come  with  me,  so  I 
packed  up  my  things,  and,  bidding  him  good-bye, 
started  on  the  homeward  journey. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

WHAT  shall  I  say  of  the  eagerness  with  which  I 
looked  forward  to  seeing  my  dear  wife,  the  rapture 
with  which,  at  last,  I  clasped  her  in  my  arms  ? 

A  little  later  I  walked  out  to  find  Matteo.  He 
was  quite  astonished  to  see  me. 

"  We  did  not  expect  you  so  soon." 

"  No,"  I  answered  ;  "  I  thought  I  should  not  arrive 
till  after  to-morrow,  but  I  was  so  impatient  to  get 
home,  that  I  hurried  on  without  stopping,  and  here 
I  am/' 

I  shook  his  hand  heartily,  I  was  so  pleased  and 
happy. 

"  Er  —  have  you  been  home  ? " 

"Of  course,"  I  answered,  smiling;  "it  was  the 
first  thing  I  thought  of." 

I  was  not  sure ;  I  thought  a  look  of  relief  came 
over  Matteo's  face.  But  why  ?  I  could  not  under- 
stand, but  I  thought  it  of  no  consequence,  and  it 
passed  from  my  memory.  I  told  Matteo  the  news 

320 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  321 

I  had,  and  left  him.  I  wished  to  get  back  to  my 
wife. 

On  my  way  I  happened  to  see  Claudia  Piacentini 
coming  out  of  a  house.  I  was  very  surprised  ;  for  I 
knew  that  my  efforts  had  succeeded,  and  Ercole's 
banishment  decreed.  I  supposed  the  order  had  not 
yet  been  issued.  I  was  going  to  pass  the  lady  with- 
out acknowledgment,  for  since  my  marriage  she  had 
never  spoken  to  me,  and  I  could  well  understand 
why  she  did  not  want  to.  To  my  astonishment,  she 
stopped  me. 

"  Ah,  Messer  Filippo !  " 

I  bowed,  profoundly. 

"  How  is  it  that  now  you  never  speak  to  me  ? 
Are  you  so  angry  with  me  ? " 

"  No  one  can  be  angry  with  so  beautiful  a  woman."-. 

She  flushed,  and  I  felt  I  had  said  a  stupid  thing, 
for  I  had  made  remarks  too  similar  on  another  occa- 
sion. I  added,  "  But  I  have  been  away/' 

"  I  know.  Will  you  not  come  in  ? "  She  pointed 
to  the  house  from  which  she  had  just  issued. 

"  But  I  shall  be  disturbing  you,  for  you  were  going 
out." 

She  smiled  as  she  replied :  "  I  saw  you  pass  my 
house  a  little  while  ago  ;  I  guessed  you  were  going 
to  Matteo  d'Orsi,  and  I  waited  for  you  on  your 
return." 

"  You  are  most  kind.  " 


322  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

I  wondered  why  she  was  so  anxious  to  see  me. 
Perhaps  she  knew  of  her  husband's  approaching 
banishment,  and  the  cause  of  it. 

We  went  in  and  sat  down. 

"  Have  you  been  home  ?  "  she  asked. 

It  was  the  same  question  as  Matteo  had  asked.  I 
gave  the  same  answer. 

"It  was  the  first  thing  I  thought  of/' 

"Your  wife  must  have  been  —  surprised  to  see 
you/' 

"And  delighted/' 

"  Ah  !"     She  crossed  her  hands  and  smiled. 

I  wondered  what  she  meant. 

"You  were  not  expected  for  two  days,  I  think/' 

"  You  know  my  movements  very  well.  I  am 
pleased  to  find  you  take  such  interest  in  me." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  I  alone.  The  whole  town  takes  in- 
terest in  you.  You  have  been  a  most  pleasant  topic 
of  conversation/' 

"  Really !  "  I  was  getting  a  little  angry.  "  And 
what  has  the  town  to  say  of  me  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  want  to  trouble  your  peace  of 
mind." 

"  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  what  you 
mean  ? " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  smiled,  enigmat- 
ically. 

"  Well  ? "  I  said. 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  323 

"  If  you  insist,  I  will  tell  you.  They  say  that  you 
are  a  complaisant  husband/' 

"That  is  a  lie!  " 

"You  are  not  polite,"  she  answered,  calmly. 

"  How  dare  you  say  such  things,  you  impudent 
woman?" 

"  My  good  sir,  it  is  true,  perfectly  true.  Ask 
Matteo." 

Suddenly  I  remembered  Matteo's  question,  and  his 
look  of  relief.  A  sudden  fear  ran  through  me.  I 
took  hold  of  Claudia's  wrists,  and  said  : 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Leave  go  ;  you  hurt  me  ! " 

"Answer,  I  tell  you.  I  know  you  are  dying  to 
tell  me.  Is  this  why  you  lay  in  wait  for  me,  and 
brought  me  here?  Tell  me." 

A  sudden  transformation  took  place  in  Claudia : 
rage  and  hate  broke  out,  and  contorted  her  face,  so 
that  one  would  not  have  recognised  it. 

"  Do  you  suppose  you  can  escape  the  ordinary  fate 
of  husbands  ? "  She  broke  into  a  savage  laugh. 

"  It  is  a  lie.  You  slander  Giulia,  because  you  are 
yourself  impure." 

"You  were  willing  enough  to  take  advantage  of 
that  impurity.  Do  you  suppose  Giulia's  character 
has  altered  because  you  have  married  her  ?  She 
made  her  first  husband  a  cuckold,  and  do  you  suppose 
that  she  has  suddenly  turned  virtuous  ?  You  fool !  " 


324  THE  MAKING   OF  A    SAINT. 

"  It  is  a  lie.     I  will  not  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"The  whole  town  has  been  ringing  with  her  love 
for  Giorgio  dall'  Aste." 

I  gave  a  cry ;  it  was  for  him  that  she  abandoned 
me  before.  .  .  . 

"  Ah,  you  believe  me  now !  " 

"  Listen  !  "  I  said.  "  If  this  is  not  true,  I  swear 
by  all  the  saints  that  I  will  kill  you." 

"  Good  ;  if  it  is  not  true,  kill  me.  But,  by  all  the 
saints,  I  swear  it  is  true,  true,  true !  "  She  repeated 
the  words  in  triumph,  and  each  one  fell  like  the  stab 
of  a  dagger  in  my  heart. 

I  left  her.  As  I  walked  home,  I  fancied  the  peo- 
ple were  looking  at  me,  and  smiling.  Once  I  was 
on  the  verge  of  going  up  to  a  man,  and  asking  him 
why  he  laughed,  but  I  contained  myself.  How  I 
was  suffering !  I  remembered  that  Giulia  had  not 
seemed  so  pleased  to  see  me ;  at  the  time,  I  chid 
myself,  and  called  myself  exacting,  but  was  it  true  ? 
I  fancied  she  turned  away  her  lips  when  I  was  im- 
printing my  passionate  kisses  on  them.  I  told  my- 
self I  was  a  fool,  but  was  it  true  ?  I  remembered 
a  slight  movement  of  withdrawal,  when  I  clasped 
her  in  my  arms.  Was  it  true  ?  O  God,  was  it 
true  ? 

I  thought  of  going  to  Matteo,  but  I  could  not. 
He  knew  her  before  her  marriage  ;  he  would  be 
willing  to  accept  the  worst  that  was  said  of  her. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  $2$ 

How  could  I  be  so  disturbed  at  the  slanders  of  a 
wicked,  jealous  woman  ?  I  wished  I  had  never  known 
Claudia,  never  given  her  reason  to  take  this  revenge 
on  me.  Oh,  it  was  cruel !  But  I  would  not  believe 
it ;  I  had  such  trust  in  Giulia,  such  love.  She  cculd 
not  betray  me,  when  she  knew  what  passionate  love 
was  poured  down  upon  her.  It  would  be  too  un- 
grateful. And  I  had  done  so  much  for  her,  but  I 
did  not  wish  to  think  of  that.  ...  All  that  I  had 
done  had  been  for  pure  love  and  pleasure,  and  I 
required  no  thanks.  But,  surely,  if  she  had  no  love, 
she  had  at  least  some  tender  feeling  for  me ;  she 
would  not  give  her  honour  to  another.  Ah,  no,  I 
would  not  believe  it.  But,  was  it  true  ?  O  God,  was 
it  true? 

I  found  myself  at  home,  and  suddenly  I  remem- 
bered the  old  steward,  whom  I  had  left  in  charge  of 
my  house.  His  name  was  Fabio ;  it  was  from  him 
that  I  got  the  name  when  I  presented  myself  as  a 
serving-man  to  old  Orso.  If  anything  had  taken 
place  in  the  house  he  must  know  it ;  and  she, 
Claudia,  said  the  whole  town  knew  it. 

"  Fabio ! " 

"My  master !" 

He  came  into  my  room,  and  I  looked  at  him 
steadily. 

"Fabio,  have  you  well  looked  after  all  I  left  in 
your  hands  when  I  went  to  Rome?" 


326  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  Your  rents  are  paid,  your  harvests  taken  in,  the 
olives  all  gathered." 

"  I  left  in  your  charge  something  more  precious 
than  corn  fields  and  vineyards." 

«  My  lord  !  " 

"  I  made  you  guardian  of  my  honour.  What  of 
that  ? " 

He  hesitated,  and  his  voice,  as  he  answered, 
trembled. 

"  Your  honour  is —  intact." 

I  took  him  by  the  shoulders. 

"  Fabio,  what  is  it  ?  I  beseech  you  by  your 
master,  my  father,  to  tell  me." 

I  knew  he  loved  my  father's  memory  with  more 
than  human  love.  He  looked  up  to  heaven,  and 
clasped  his  hands ;  he  could  hardly  speak. 

"By  my  dear  master,  your  father,  nothing, — 
nothing !  " 

"Fabio,  you  are  lying."  I  pressed  his  wrists, 
which  I  was  holding  clenched  in  my  hands. 

He  sank  down  on  his  knees. 

"  O  master,  have  mercy  on  me !  "  He  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  "  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Speak,  man,  speak  !  " 

At  last,  with  laments  and  groans,  he  uttered  the 
words : 

"  She  has,  —  O  God,  she  has  betrayed  you  !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  I  staggered  back. 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  327 

"  Forgive  me  !  " 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  before  ? " 

"  Ah,  how  could  I  ?  You  loved  her  as  I  have  never 
seen  man  love  woman/' 

"  Did  you  not  think  of  my  honour  ?" 

"  I  thought  of  your  happiness.  It  is  better  to  have 
happiness  without  honour,  than  honour  without  hap- 
piness." 

"For  you,"  I  groaned,  "but  not  for  me." 

"You  are  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  and  you 
suffer  as  we  do.  I  could  not  destroy  your  happi- 
ness." 

"  O  Giulia,  Giulia  !  "  Then,  after  a  while,  I  asked 
again,  "  But  are  you  sure  ?  " 

"Alas,  there  is  no  doubt !  " 

"  I  cannot  believe  it.  O  God,  help  me !  You 
don't  know  how  I  loved  her  !  She  could  not !  Let 
me  see  it  with  my  own  eyes,  Fabio." 

We  both  stood  silent ;  then  a  horrible  thought 
struck  me. 

"  Do  you  know  —  when  they  meet  ? "  I  whispered. 

He  groaned.     I  asked  again. 

"God  help  me!" 

"  You  know  ?     I  command  you  to  tell  me." 

"They  did  not  know  you  were  coming  back  till 
after  to-morrow." 

"  He  is  coming  ? " 

"To-day." 


328  THE   MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

"Oh  !  "  I  seized  him  by  the  hand.  "Take  me, 
and  let  me  see  them." 

"  What  will  you  do  ? "  he  asked,  horror-stricken. 

"  Never  mind,  take  me  !  " 

Trembling,  he  led  me  through  anterooms  and 
passages,  till  he  brought  me  to  a  staircase.  We 
mounted  the  steps  and  came  to  a  little  door.  He 
opened  it  very  quietly,  and  we  found  ourselves  behind 
the  arras  of  Giulia's  chamber.  I  had  forgotten  the 
existence  of  door  and  steps,  and  she  knew  nothing 
of  them.  There  was  an  opening  in  the  tapestry  to 
give  exit. 

No  one  was  in  the  room.  We  waited,  holding 
our  breath.  At  last  Giulia  entered.  She  walked  to 
the  window  and  looked  out,  and  went  back  to  the 
door.  She  sat  down,  but  sprang  up  restlessly,  and 
again  looked  out  of  the  window.  Whom  was  she 
expecting  ? 

She  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  and  her  face 
was  full  of  anxiety.  I  watched  intently.  At  last  a 
light  knock  was  heard ;  she  opened  the  door,  and 
a  man  came  in.  A  small,  slight,  thin  man,  with 
a  quantity  of  corn-coloured  hair  falling  over  his 
shoulders,  and  a  pale,  fair  skin.  He  had  blue  eyes, 
and  a  little  golden  moustache.  He  looked  hardly 
twenty,  but  I  knew  he  was  older. 

He  sprang  forward,  seizing  her  in  his  arms,  and 
he  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  but  she  pushed  him  back. 


'IN    A    BOUND    I    HAD    REACHED    HIM." 


THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT.  329 

"  O  Giorgio,  you  must  go/'  she  cried.  "  He  has 
come  back." 

"  Your  husband  ?  " 

"  I  hoped  you  would  not  come.  Go  quickly.  If 
he  found  you  he  would  kill  us  both." 

"  Tell  me  you  love  me,  Giulia." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul." 

For  a  moment  they  stood  still  in  one  another's 
arms,  then  she  tore  herself  away. 

"  But  go,  for  God's  sake !  " 

"  I  go,  my  love.     Good-bye  !  " 

"  Good-bye,  beloved  !  " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  again,  and  she  placed 
hers  around  his  neck.  They  kissed  one  another 
passionately  on  the  lips ;  she  kissed  him  as  she  had 
never  kissed  me. 

"  Oh  !  "  I  gave  a  cry  of  rage,  and  leaped  out  of  my 
concealment.  In  a  bound  I  had  reached  him.  They 
hardly  knew  I  was  there ;  and  I  had  plunged  my 
dagger  in  his  neck.  Giulia  gave  a  piercing  shriek 
as  he  fell  with  a  groan.  The  blood  spattered  over 
my  hand.  Then  I  looked  at  her.  She  ran  from  me 
with  terror-stricken  face,  her  eyes  starting  from  her 
head.  I  rushed  to  her,  and  she  shrieked  again,  but 
Fabio  caught  hold  of  my  arm. 

"  Not  her,  not  her,  too  !  " 

I  wrenched  my  hand  away  from  him,  and  then  — 


330  THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT. 

then  as  I  saw  her  pallid  face  and  the  look  of  deathly 
terror  —  I  stopped.  I  could  not  kill  her. 

"  Lock  that  door,"  I  said  to  Fabio,  pointing  to  the 
one  from  which  we  had  come.  Then,  looking  at  her, 
I  screamed : 

"  Harlot ! " 

I  called  to  Fabio,  and  we  left  the  room.  I  locked 
the  door,  and  she  remained  shut  in  with  her  lover.  .  . 

I  called  my  servants,  and  bade  them  follow  me, 
and  went  out.  I  walked  proudly,  surrounded  by  my 
retainers,  and  I  came  to  the  house  of  Bartolomeo 
Moratini.  He  had  just  finished  dinner,  and  was 
sitting  with  his  sons.  They  rose  as  they  saw  me. 

"  Ah,  Filippo,  you  have  returned."  Then,  seeing 
my  pale  face,  they  cried,  "  But  what  is  it  ?  What 
has  happened  ? " 

And  Bartolomeo  broke  in  : 

"  What  is  that  on  your  hand,  Filippo  ? " 

I  stretched  it  out,  so  that  he  might  see. 

"That  —  that  is  the  blood  of  your  daughter's 
lover. " 

«  Oh ! " 

"  I  found  them  together,  and  I  killed  the  adul- 
terer/1 

Bartolomeo  kept  silence  a  moment,  then  he  said  : 

"You  have  done  well,  Filippo."  He  turned  to 
his  sons.  "  Scipione,  give  me  my  sword." 

He  girded  it  on,  and  then  he  spoke  to  me. 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  331 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "I  beg  you  to  wait  here  till  I 
come." 

I  bowed. 

"  Sir,  I  am  your  servant." 

"  Scipione,  Alessandro,  follow  me !  " 

And,  accompanied  by  his  sons,  he  left  the  room, 
and  I  remained  alone. 

The  servants  peeped  in  at  the  door,  looking  at  me 
as  if  I  were  some  strange  beast,  and  fled  when  I 
turned  around.  I  walked  up  and  down,  up  and  down  ; 
I  looked  out  of  the  window.  In  the  street  the  peo- 
ple were  going  to  and  fro,  singing,  and  talking  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  They  did  not  know  that 
death  was  flying  through  the  air ;  they  did  not  know 
that  the  happiness  of  living  men  had  gone  for  ever. 

At  last  I  heard  the  steps  again,  and  Bartolomeo 
Moratini  entered  the  room,  followed  by  his  sons;  and 
all  three  were  very  grave. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "the  stain  on  your  honour  and 
mine  has  been  effaced." 

I  bowed  more  deeply  than  before. 

"  Sir,  I  am  your  very  humble  servant." 

"  I  thank  you  that  you  allowed  me  to  do  my  duty 
as  a  father;  and  I  regret  that  a  member  of  my 
family  should  have  shown  herself  unworthy  of  my 
name  and  yours.  I  will  detain  you  no  longer." 

I  bowed  again,  and  left  them. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

I  WALKED  back  to  my  house.  It  was  very  silent, 
and  as  I  passed  up  the  stairs  the  servants  shrunk 
back,  with  averted  faces,  as  if  they  were  afraid  to 
look  at  me. 

"  Where  is  Fabio  ? "  I  asked. 

A  page  whispered,  timidly  : 

"  In  the  chapel." 

I  turned  on  my  heel,  and  passed  through  the 
rooms,  one  after  another,  till  I  came  to  the  chapel 
door.  I  pushed  it  open  and  entered.  A  dim  light 
came  through  the  painted  windows,  and  I  could 
hardly  see.  In  the  centre  were  two  bodies  covered 
with  a  cloth,  and  their  heads  were  lighted  by  the 
yellow  gleam  of  candles.  At  their  feet  knelt  an  old 
man  praying.  It  was  Fabio. 

I  advanced  and  drew  back  the  cloth ;  and  I  fell 
on  my  knees.  Giulia  looked  as  if  she  were  sleeping. 
I  had  so  often  leant  over  her,  watching  the  regular 
heaving  of  the  breast,  and  sometimes  I  had  thought 
her  features  as  calm  and  relaxed  as  if  she  were  dead. 
But  now  the  breast  would  no  more  rise  and  fall, 

332~ 


THE  MAKING   OF  A    SAINT.  333 

and  its  wonderful  soft  whiteness  was  disfigured  by 
a  gaping  wound.  Her  eyes  were  closed  and  her  lips 
half  parted,  and  the  only  difference  from  life  was  the 
fallen  jaw.  Her  face  was  very  pale;  the  rich  waving 
hair  encircled  it  as  with  an  aureole. 

I  looked  at  him,  and  he,  too,  was  pale,  and  his  fair 
hair  contrasted  wonderfully  with  hers.  He  looked 
so  young  I 

Then,  as  I  knelt  there,  and  the  hours  passed  slowly, 
I  thought  of  all  that  had  happened,  and  I  tried  to 
understand.  The  dim  light  from  the  window  gradu- 
ally failed,  and  the  candles  in  the  darkness  burnt  out 
more  brightly ;  each  was  surrounded  by  a  halo  of 
light,  and  lit  up  the  dead  faces,  throwing  into  deeper 
night  the  rest  of  the  chapel. 

Little  by  little  I  seemed  to  see  into  the  love  of 
these  two  which  had  been  so  strong  that  no  ties 
of  honour,  faith,  or  truth  had  been  able  to  influence 
it.  And  this  is  what  I  imagined,  trying  to  console 
myself. 

When  she  was  sixteen,  I  thought,  they  married 
her  to  an  old  man  she  had  never  seen,  and  she  met 
her  husband's  cousin,  a  boy  no  older  than  herself. 
And  the  love  started  and  worked  its  way.  But  the 
boy  lived  on  his  rich  cousin's  charity ;  from  him  he 
had  received  a  home  and  protection  and  a  thousand 
kindnesses  ;  he  loved  against  his  will,  but  he  loved 


334  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

all  the  same.  And  she,  I  thought,  had  loved  like  a 
woman,  passionately,  thoughtless  of  honour  and  truth. 
In  the  sensual  violence  of  her  love  she  had  carried 
him  away,  and  he  had  yielded.  Then  with  enjoy- 
ment had  come  remorse,  and  he  had  torn  himself 
away  from  the  temptress  and  fled. 

I  hardly  knew  what  had  happened  when  she  was 
left  alone,  pining  for  her  lover.  Scandal  said  evil 
things.  .  .  .  Had  she,  too,  felt  remorse  and  tried  to 
kill  her  love,  and  had  the  attempt  failed  ?  And  was 
it  then  she  flung  herself  into  dissipation  to  drown 
her  trouble?  Perhaps  he  told  her  he  did  not  love 
her,  and  she  in  despair  may  have  thrown  herself  in 
the  arms  of  other  lovers.  But  he  loved  her  too 
strongly  to  forget  her ;  at  last  he  could  not  bear  the 
absence,  and  came  back.  And  again  with  enjoyment 
came  remorse,  and,  ashamed,  he  fled,  hating  himself, 
despising  her. 

The  years  passed  by,  and  her  husband  died.  Why 
did  he  not  come  back  to  her  ?  Had  he  lost  his  love, 
and  was  he  afraid  ?  I  could  not  understand.  .  .  . 

Then  she  met  me.  Ah,  I  wondered  what  she  felt. 
Did  she  love  me  ?  Perhaps  his  long  absence  had 
made  her  partly  forget  him,  and  she  thought  he  had 
forgotten  her.  She  fell  in  love  with  me,  and  I  —  I 
loved  her  with  all  my  heart.  I  knew  she  loved  me 
then  ;  she  must  have  loved  me  !  But  he  came  back. 
He  may  have  thought  himself  cured,  he  may  have 


THE   MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  335 

said  that  he  could  meet  her  coldly  and  indifferently. 
Had  I  not  said  the  same  ?  But,  as  they  saw  one 
another,  the  old  love  burst  out,  again  it  burnt  them 
with  consuming  fire,  and  Giulia  hated  me  because  I 
had  made  her  faithless  to  the  lover  of  her  heart. 

The  candles  were  burning  low,  throwing  strange 
lights  and  shadows  on  the  faces  of  the  dead. 

Poor  fool !  His  love  was  as  powerful  as  ever,  but 
he  fought  against  it  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
weak  will.  She  was  the  Evil  One  to  him ;  she  took 
his  youth  from  him,  his  manhood,  his  honour,  his 
strength ;  he  felt  that  her  kisses  degraded  him,  and 
as  he  rose  from  her  embrace  he  .felt  vile  and  mean. 
He  vowed  never  to  touch  her  again,  and  every  time 
he  broke  the  vow.  But  her  love  was  the  same  as 
ever,  —  passionate,  even  heartless.  She  cared  not  if 
she  consumed  him,  as  long  as  she  loved  him.  For 
her  he  might  ruin  his  life,  he  might  lose  his  soul. 
She  cared  for  nothing ;  it  was  all  and  all  for  love. 

He  fled  again,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  on  me 
once  more.  Perhaps  she  felt  sorry  for  my  pain, 
perhaps  she  fancied  my  love  would  efface  the  re- 
membrance of  him.  And  we  were  married.  Ah  ! 
now  that  she  was  dead  I  could  allow  her  good 
intentions.  She  may  have  intended  to  be  faithful 
to  me ;  she  may  have  thought  she  could  truly  love 


336  THE  MAKING    OF  A    SAINT. 

and  honour  me.  Perhaps  she  tried ;  who  knows  ? 
But  love  —  love  cares  not  for  vows.  It  was  too 
strong  for  her,  too  strong  for  him.  I  do  not  know 
whether  she  sent  for  him,  or  whether  he,  in  the 
extremity  of  his  passion,  came  to  her ;  but  what  had 
happened  so  often,  happened  again.  They  threw 
everything  to  the  winds,  and  gave  themselves  over 
to  the  love  that  kills.  .  .  . 

The  long  hours  passed  as  I  thought  of  these 
things,  and  the  candles  were  burnt  to  their  sockets. 

At  last  I  felt  a  touch  on  my  shoulder,  and  heard 
Fabio's  voice. 

"  Master,  it  is  nearly  morning." 

I  stood  up,  and  he  added  : 

"They  put  him -in  the  chapel  without  asking  me. 
You  are  not  angry  ? " 

"They  did  well." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  asked : 

"What  shall  I  do?" 

I  looked  at  him,  not  understanding. 

"  He  cannot  remain  here,  and  she  —  she  must  be 
buried." 

"Take  them  to  the  church,  and  lay  them  in  the 
tomb  my  father  built,  —  together." 

"The  man,  too?"  he  asked.  "In  your  own 
tomb?" 

I  sighed,  and  answered,  sadly : 

"  Perhaps  he  loved  her  better  than  I." 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  337 

As  I  spoke,  I  heard  a  sob  at  my  feet.  A  man  I 
had  not  seen  took  hold  of  my  hand  and  kissed  it,  and 
I  felt  it  wet  with  tears. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  I  asked. 

"  He  has  been  here  all  the  night/'  said  Fabio. 

"  He  was  my  master,  and  I  loved  him,"  replied  the 
kneeling  figure,  in  a  broken  voice.  "  I  thank  you 
that  you  do  not  cast  him  out  like  a  dog." 

I  looked  at  him,  and  felt  deep  pity  for  his  grief. 

"  What  will  you  do  now  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Alas !  now  I  am  a  wreck  that  tosses  on  the 
billows  without  a  guide." 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  him. 

"  Will  you  take  me  as  your  servant  ?  I  will  be 
very  faithful." 

"  Do  you  ask  me  that  ?  "  I  said.  "  Do  you  not 
know  —  " 

"  Ah,  yes !  you  took  the  life  that  he  was  glad  to 
lose.  It  was  almost  a  kindness ;  and  now  you  bury 
him  peacefully,  and  for  that  I  love  you.  You  owe 
it  to  me ;  you  have  robbed  me  of  a  master,  give  me 
another." 

"  No,  poor  friend !  I  want  no  servants  now.  I, 
too,  am  like  a  wreck  that  drifts  aimlessly  across  the 
seas.  With  me,  too,  it  is  finished." 

I  looked  once  more  at  Giulia,  and  then  I  replaced 
the  white  cloth,  and  the  faces  were  covered. 

"  Bring  me  my  horse,  Fabio." 


338  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

In  a  few  minutes  it  was  waiting  for  me. 

"  Will  you  have  no  one  to  accompany  you  ? "  he 
asked. 

"No  one!" 

Then,  as  I  mounted  and  arranged  the  reins  in  my 
hand,  he  said  : 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

And  I  despairingly  answered  : 

"  God  knows  ! " 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

AND  I  rode  away  out  of  the  town  into  the  open 
country.  The  day  was  breaking,  and  everything  was 
cold  and  gray.  I  paid  no  heed  to  my  course  ;  I  rode 
along,  taking  the  roads  as  they  came,  through  broad 
plains,  eastwards  towards  the  mountains.  In  the 
increasing  day  I  saw  the  little  river  wind  sinuously 
through  the  fields,  and  the  country  stretched  flat 
before  me,  with  slender  trees  marked  out  against  the 
sky.  Now  and  then  a  tiny  hill  was  surmounted  by  a 
village,  and  once,  as  I  passed,  I  heard  the  tinkling  of 
a  bell.  I  stopped  at  an  inn  to  water  the  horse,  and 
then,  hating  the  sight  of  men,  I  hurried  on.  The 
hours  of  coolness  had  passed,  and  as  we  tramped 
along  the  shapeless  roads,  the  horse  began  to  sweat, 
and  the  thick  white  dust  rose  in  clouds  behind  us. 

At  last  I  came  to  a  roadside  inn,  and  it  was  nearly 
midday.  I  dismounted,  and  giving  the  horse  to  the 
ostler's  care,  I  went  inside  and  sat  at  a  table.  The 
landlord  came  to  me  and  offered  food.  I  could  not 
eat,  I  felt  it  would  make  me  sick ;  I  ordered  wine. 
It  was  brought ;  I  poured  some  out  and  tasted  it. 

339 


34O  THE  MAKING   OF  A  SAINT. 

Then  I  put  my  elbows  on  the  table  and  held  my 
head  with  both  hands,  for  it  was  aching  so  as  almost 
to  drive  me  mad. 

"Sir!" 

I  looked  up  and  saw  a  Franciscan  friar  standing 
by  my  side.  On  his  back  he  bore  a  sack  ;  I  supposed 
he  was  collecting  food. 

"  Sir,  I  pray  you  for  alms  for  the  sick  and  needy.'* 

I  drew  out  a  piece  of  gold  and  threw  it  to  him. 

"The  roads  are  hard  to-day,"  he  said. 

I  made  no  answer. 

"  You  are  going  far,  sir  ?  " 

"  When  one  gives  alms  to  a  beggar,  it  is  so  that  he 
may  not  importune  one,"  I  said. 

"  Ah,  no ;  it  is  for  the  love  of  God  and  charity. 
But  I  do  not  wish  to  importune  you ;  I  thought  I 
might  help  you." 

"  I  want  no  help." 

"  You  look  unhappy." 

"  I  beg  you  to  leave  me  in  peace." 

"As  you  will,  my  son." 

He  left  me,  and  I  returned  to  my  old  position.  I 
felt  as  if  a  sheet  of  lead  were  pressing  upon  my  head. 
A  moment  later  a  gruff  voice  broke  in  upon  me. 

"Ah,  Messer  Filippo  Brandolini !  " 

I  looked  up.  At  the  first  glance  I  did  not  recog- 
nise the  speaker ;  but  then,  as  I  cleared  my  mind,  I 
saw  it  was  Ercole  Piacentini.  What  was  he  doing 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  34! 

here  ?  Then  I  remembered  that  it  was  on  the  road 
to  Forli.  I  supposed  he  had  received  orders  to  leave 
Castello  and  was  on  his  way  to  his  old  haunts.  How- 
ever, I  did  not  want  to  speak  to  him ;  I  bent  down, 
and  again  clasped  my  head  in  my  hands. 

"  That  is  a  civil  way  of  answering,'*  he  said.  "  Mes- 
ser  Filippo ! " 

I  looked  up,  rather  bored. 

"  If  I  do  not  answer,  it  is  evidently  because  I  do 
not  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

"  And  if  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  ? " 

"  Then  I  must  take  the  liberty  of  begging  you  to 
hold  your  tongue." 

"  You  insolent  fellow  !  " 

I  felt  too  miserable  to  be  angry. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  leave  me/'  I  said.  "  You 
bore  me  intensely." 

"  I  tell  you  that  you  are  an  insolent  fellow,  and  I 
shall  do  as  I  please." 

"  Are  you  a  beggar,  that  you  are  so  importunate  ? 
What  do  you  want  ? " 

"  Do  you  remember  saying  in  Forli  that  you  would 
fight  me  when  the  opportunity  presented  itself?  It 
has !  And  I  am  ready,  for  I  have  to  thank  you  for 
my  banishment  from  Castello." 

"  When  I  offered  to  fight  you,  sir,  I  thought  you 
were  a  gentleman.  Now  that  I  know  your  condition, 
I  must  decline." 


342  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

"  You  coward  !  " 

"  Surely  it  is  not  cowardice  to  refuse  a  duel  with  a 
person  like  yourself  ? " 

By  this  time  he  was  wild  with  rage;  but  I  was 
cool  and  collected. 

"  Have  you  so  much  to  boast  ? "  he  asked,  furi- 
ously. 

"  Happily  I  am  not  a  bastard ! " 

"  Cuckold ! " 

"Oh!" 

I  sprang  up  and  looked  at  him  with  a  look  of  hor- 
ror. He  laughed  scornfully,  and  repeated  : 

-Cuckold!" 

Now  it  was  my  turn.  The  blood  rushed  to  my 
head,  and  a  terrible  rage  seized  me.  I  picked  up  the 
tankard  of  wine  which  was  on  the  table  and  flung  it 
at  him  with  all  my  might.  The  wine  splashed  over 
his  face,  and  the  cup  hit  him  on  the  forehead  and  cut 
him  so  that  the  blood  trickled  down.  In  a  moment 
he  had  drawn  his  sword,  and  at  the  same  time  I 
wrenched  mine  from  its  sheath. 

He  could  fight  well. 

He  could  fight  well,  but  against  me  he  was  lost. 
All  the  rage  and  agony  of  the  last  day  gathered 
themselves  together.  I  was  lifted  up,  and  cried  aloud 
in  the  joy  of  having  some  one  on  whom  to  wreak  my 
vengeance.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  against  me  the  whole 
world  and  were  pouring  out  my  hate  at  the  end  of 


THE  MAKING    OF  A   SAINT.  343 

my  sword.  My  fury  lent  me  the  strength  of  a  devil. 
I  drove  him  back,  I  drove  him  back,  and  I  fought  as 
I  had  never  fought  before.  In  a  minute  I  had  beaten 
the  sword  from  his  hand,  and  it  fell  to  the  floor  as  if 
his  wrist  were  broken,  clattering  down  among  the 
cups.  He  staggered  back  against  the  wall,  and 
stood  there  with  his  head  thrown  back,  and  his  arms 
hopelessly  outspread. 

"  Ah,  God,  I  thank  thee !  "  I  cried,  exultingly. 
"Now  I  am  happy. " 

I  lifted  my  sword  above  my  head  to  cleave  his 
skull,  my  arm  was  in  the  swing,  —  when  I  stopped. 
I  saw  the  staring  eyes,  the  white  face  blanched  with 
terror ;  he  was  standing  against  the  wall  as  he  had 
fallen,  shrinking  away  in  his  mortal  anxiety.  I 
stopped ;  I  could  not  kill  him. 

I  sheathed  my  sword,  and  said : 

"  Go !  I  will  not  kill  you.  I  despise  you  too 
much." 

He  did  not  move,  but  stood  as  if  he  were  turned 
to  stone,  still  terror-stricken  and  afraid.  Then,  in 
my  contempt,  I  took  a  horn  of  water  and  flung  it 
over  him. 

"  You  look  pale,  my  friend,"  I  said.  "  Here  is 
water  to  mix  with  your  wine." 

Then  I  leant  back  and  burst  into  a  shout  of 
laughter,  and  I  laughed  till  my  sides  ached,  and  I 
laughed  again. 


344  THE   MAKING   OF  A    SAINT. 

I  threw  down  money  to  pay  for  my  entertainment, 
and  went  out.  But  as  I  bestrode  my  horse  and  we 
recommenced  our  journey  along  the  silent  roads, 
I  felt  my  head  ache  worse  than  ever.  All  enjoy- 
ment was  gone ;  I  could  take  no  pleasure  in  life. 
How  long  would  it  last  ?  How  long  ?  I  rode  along 
under  the  midday  sun,  and  it  fell  scorching  on  my 
head  ;  the  wretched  beast  trotted  with  hanging  head, 
his  tongue  lolling  out  of  his  mouth,  parched  and 
dry.  The  sun  beat  down  with  all  the  power  of 
August,  and  everything  seemed  livid  with  the  awful 
heat.  Man  and  beast  had  shrunk  away  from  the  fiery 
rays,  the  country  folk  were  taking  the  noonday  rest, 
the  cattle  and  the  horses  sheltered  by  barns  and 
sheds,  the  birds  were  silent,  and  even  the  lizards 
had  crept  into  their  holes.  Only  the  horse  and  I 
tramped  along,  miserably,  —  only  the  horse  and 
I.  There  was  no  shade  ;  the  walls  on  either  side 
were  too  low  to  give  shelter,  the  road  glaring  and 
white  and  dusty.  I  might  have  been  riding  through 
a  furnace.  Everything  was  against  me.  Everything  ! 
Even  the  sun  seemed  to  beat  down  his  hottest  rays 
to  increase  my  misery.  What  had  I  done  that  all 
this  should  come  to  me  ?  I  clenched  my  fist,  and 
in  impotent  rage  cursed  God.  .  .  . 

At  last  I  saw  close  to  me  a  little  hill  covered  with 
dark  fir-trees  ;  I  came  nearer,  and  the  sight  of  the 
sombre  green  was  like  a  draught  of  cool  water.  I 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  345 

could  no  longer  bear  the  horror  of  the  heat.  From 
the  main  road  another  smaller  one  led  winding  up 
the  hill.  I  turned  my  horse,  and  soon  we  were 
among  the  trees,  and  I  took  a  long  breath  of  delight 
in  the  coolness.  I  dismounted,  and  led  him  by  the 
bridle  ;  it  was  enchanting  to  walk  along  the  path, 
soft  with  the  fallen  needles,  and  a  delicious  green 
smell  hovered  in  the  air.  We  came  to  a  clearing, 
where  was  a  little  pond  ;  I  watered  the  poor 
beast,  and,  throwing  myself  down,  drank  deeply. 
Then  I  tied  him  to  a  tree  and  advanced  a  few  steps 
alone.  I  came  to  a  sort  of  terrace,  and,  going 
forward,  found  myself  at  the  edge  of  the  hill,  look- 
ing over  the  plain.  Behind,  the  tall  fir-trees  gave 
me  shade  and  coolness  ;  I  sat  down,  looking  at  the 
country  before  me.  In  the  cloudless  sky  it  seemed 
now  singularly  beautiful.  Far  away  on  one  side  I 
could  see  the  walls  and  towers  of  some  city,  and  to  it, 
in  broad  curves,  wound  a  river ;  the  maize  and  corn, 
vines  and  olive-trees,  covered  the  land,  and  in  the 
distance  I  saw  the  soft  blue  mountains.  Why 
should  the  world  be  so  beautiful,  and  I  so  miserable  ? 

"  It  is,  indeed,  a  wonderful  scene. " 

I  looked  up,  and  saw  the  monk  whom  I  had  spoken 
with  at  the  inn.  He  put  down  his  sack  and  sat  by 
my  side. 

"You  do  not  think  me  importunate  ? "  he  asked. 

"I  beg  your  pardon/'  I  replied,  "I  was  not  civil 


346  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

to  you  ,  you  must  forgive  me.  I  was  not  my- 
self." 

"  Do  not  talk  of  it.  I  saw  you  here,  and  I  came 
down  to  you  to  offer  you  our  hospitality." 

I  looked  at  him  questioningly ;  he  pointed  over  his 
shoulder,  and,  looking,  I  saw,  perched  on  the  top  of 
the  hill,  piercing  through  the  trees,  a  little  monastery. 

"  How  peaceful  it  looks  !  "  I  said. 

"  It  is,  indeed.  St.  Francis  himself  used  some- 
times to  come  to  enjoy  the  quiet." 

I  sighed.  Oh,  why  could  not  I  have  done  with  the 
life  I  hated,  and  also  enjoy  the  quiet  ?  I  felt  the 
monk  was  watching  me,  and,  looking  up,  I  met  his 
glance.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  deeply  sunken 
eyes  and  hollow  cheeks.  And  he  was  pale  and  worn 
from  prayer  and  fasting.  But  his  voice  was  sweet 
and  very  gentle. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  ?  "  I  said. 

"  I  was  in  the  tavern  when  you  disarmed  the  man 
and  gave  him  his  life." 

"  It  was  not  for  charity  and  mercy,"  I  said,  bitterly. 

"I  know,"  he  answered,  "it  was  from  despair." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  watched  you ;  and  at  the  end  I  said,  <  God  pity 
his  unhappiness.'  " 

I  looked  with  astonishment  at  the  strange  man ; 
and  then,  with  a  groan,  I  said : 

"  Oh,  you  are  right.     I  am  so  unhappy." 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  347 

He  took  my  hands  in  his,  and,  with  the  gentleness 
of  the  mother  of  God  herself,  replied  : 

" '  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest/ ' 

Then  I  could  suffer  my  woe  no  longer.  I  buried 
my  face  in  his  bosom,  and  burst  into  tears. 


EPILOGUE. 

AND  now  many  years  have  passed,  and  the  noble 
gentleman,  Filippo  Brandolini,  is  the  poor  monk 
Giuliano  ;  the  gorgeous  clothes,  velvets,  and  satins 
have  given  way  to  the  brown  sackcloth  of  the 
Seraphic  Father ;  and,  instead  of  golden  belts,  my 
waist  is  girt  with  a  hempen  cord.  And  in  me,  what 
changes  have  taken  place !  The  brown  hair,  which 
women  kissed,  is  a  little  circlet  in  sign  of  the  Re- 
deemer's crown,  and  it  is  as  white  as  snow.  My  eyes 
are  dim  and  sunken,  my  cheeks  are  hollow,  and  the 
skin  of  my  youth  is  ashy  and  wrinkled  ;  the  white 
teeth  of  my  mouth  have  gone,  but  my  toothless  gums 
suffice  for  the  monkish  fare ;  and  I  am  old  and  bent 
and  weak. 

One  day  in  the  spring  I  came  to  the  terrace  which 
overlooks  the  plain,  and  as  I  sat  down  to  warm  my- 
self in  the  sunshine,  gazing  at  the  broad  country 
which  now  I  knew  so  well,  and  the  distant  hills,  the 
wish  came  to  me  to  write  the  history  of  my  life. 

348 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  349 

And  now  that,  too,  is  done.  I  have  nothing  more 
to  tell,  except  that,  from  the  day  when  I  arrived,  weary 
of  soul,  at  the  cool  shade  of  the  fir-trees,  I  have  never 
gone  into  the  world  again.  I  gave  my  lands  and 
palaces  to  my  brother,  in  the  hope  that  he  would 
make  better  use  of  his  life  than  I,  and  to  him  I  gave 
the  charge  of  seeing  that  heirs  were  given  to  the 
ancient  name.  I  knew  I  had  failed  in  everything. 
My  life  had  gone  wrong,  I  know  not  why,  and  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  adventure  further.  I  withdrew 
from  the  battle  in  my  unfitness,  and  let  the  world 
pass  on  and  forget  my  poor  existence. 

Checco  lived  on,  scheming  and  intriguing,  wearing 
away  his  life  in  attempts  to  regain  his  fatherland, 
and  always  he  was  disappointed,  always  his  hopes 
frustrated,  till  at  last  he  despaired.  And  after  six 
years,  worn  out  with  his  fruitless  efforts,  mourning 
the  greatness  he  had  lost,  and  pining  for  the  country 
he  loved  so  well,  he  died  of  a  broken  heart,  an  exile. 

Matteo  went  back  to  his  arms  and  the  reckless  life 
of  the  soldier  of  fortune,  and  was  killed  bravely  fight- 
ing against  the  foreign  invader,  and  died,  knowing 
that  his  efforts,  too,  had  been  in  vain,  and  that  the 
sweet  land  of  Italy  lay  fallen  and  enslaved. 

And  I  do  not  know  whether  they  had  not  the 
better  lot,  for  they  are  at  peace,  while  I  —  I  pursue 
my  lonely  pilgrimage  through  life,  and  the  goal  is 


3  SO  THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT. 

ever  far  off.  Now  it  cannot  be  much  longer;  my 
strength  is  failing,  and  soon  I  shall  have  the  peace  I 
wished  for.  O  God,  I  do  not  ask  you  for  crowns 
of  gold  and  heavenly  raiment,  I  do  not  aspire  to  the 
bliss  which  is  the  portion  of  the  saint,  but  give  me 
rest.  When  the  great  release  comes,  give  me  rest ; 
let  me  sleep  the  long  sleep  without  awakening,  so 
that  at  last  I  may  forget  and  be  at  peace.  O  God, 
give  me  rest ! 

Often,  as  I  trudged  along  the  roads,  barefooted,  to 
gather  food  and  alms,  have  I  wished  to  lay  myself  in 
the  ditch  by  the  wayside  and  die.  Sometimes  I  have 
heard  the  beating  of  the  wings  of  the  Angel  of 
Death ;  but  he  has  taken  the  strong  and  the  happy, 
and  left  me  to  wander  on. 

The  good  man  told  me  I  should  receive  happiness ; 
I  have  not  even  received  forgetfulness.  I  go  along 
the  roads  thinking  of  my  life  and  the  love  that  ruined 
me.  Ah  !  how  weak  I  am  ;  but,  forgive  me,  I  cannot 
help  myself !  Sometimes,  when  I  have  been  able  to 
do  good,  I  have  felt  a  strange  delight,  I  have  felt  the 
blessed  joy  of  charity.  And  I  love  my  people,  the 
poor  folk  of  the  country  around.  They  come  to  me 
in  their  troubles,  and  when  I  can  help  them  I  share 
their  pleasure.  But  that  is  all  I  have.  Ah !  mine 
has  been  a  useless  life,  I  have  wasted  it ;  and  if  of 
late  I  have  done  a  little  good  to  my  fellow  men,  alas  ! 
how  little ! 


THE  MAKING   OF  A   SAINT.  35  I 

I  bear  my  soul  in  patience,  but  sometimes  I  can- 
not help  rising  up  against  fate,  and  crying  out  that  it 
is  hard  that  all  this  should  happen  to  me.  Why? 
What  had  I  done  that  I  should  be  denied  the  little 
happiness  of  this  world  ?  Why  should  I  be  more 
unhappy  than  others  ?  But  then  I  chide  myself,  and 
ask  whether  I  have  indeed  been  less  happy.  Are 
they  any  of  them  happy  ?  Or  are  those  right  who 
say  that  the  world  is  misery,  and  that  the  only 
happiness  is  to  die  ?  Who  knows  ? 

Ah,  Giulia,  how  I  loved  thee ! 

O  Ciechi,  il  tanto  affaticar  che  giova? 
Tutti  tornate  alia  gran  madre  antica, 
E'l  nome  vostro  appena  si  ritrova. 

Blind  that  ye  are  !     How  doth  this  struggle  profit  you  ? 
Return  ye  must  to  the  great  Antique  Mother, 
And  even  your  name  scarcely  remains. 


.THE    END. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  THE  ST.  BOTOLPH  SOCIETY 

53  BEACON  STREET  BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 

THE  FAMOUS  SEA  STORIES  OF 

HERMAN  MELVILLE 

MOBY  DICK;  Or,  The  White  Whale. 
TYPEE.    A  Real  Romance  of  the  South  Sea. 
OMOO.    A  Narrative  of  Adventures  in  the 

South  Seas;  a  sequel  to  TYPEE. 
WHITE  JACKET;  Or,  The  World  on  a  Man- 

of-War. 

Each  one  volume,  cloth  decorative, 
I2mo,  illustrated  $1.90 

THE  recent  centenary  of  Herman  Melville 
created  renewed  interest  in  his  famous 
sea  stories. 

Melville's  power  of  describing  and  investing 
with  romance,  scenes  and  incidents  witnessed 
and  participated  in  by  himself  was  unequalled. 
These  stories,  though  written  more  than  fifty 
years  ago,  are  more  attractive  than  ever,  and 
are  daily  growing  in  popularity. 

'Melville  wove  human  element  and  natural 
setting  into  recitals  which  aroused  the  enthu- 
siasm of  critics  and  sent  a  thrill  of  delight 
through  the  reading  public  when  first  pub- 
lished, and  which  both  for  form  and  matter 
have  ever  since  held  rank  as  classics  in  the 
literature  of  travel." — Boston  Herald. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  THE  ST.  BOTOLPH  SOCIETY 

53  BEACON  STREET  BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 

The  Sands  of  Pleasure 

By  FILSON  YOUNG 

Author  of  "The  Happy  Motorist"  "Venus  and  Cupid,  an 

Impression"  etc. 
Cloth  decorative,  I2mo,  illustrated,  $1.65 

«  <  '"T^HE  consciousness  of  doing  something  wrong  would 

JL     make  it  ugly." 
"Morality  is  only  an  underbred   substitute   for  decency." 

These  two  quotations  from  THE  SANDS  OF  PLEA- 
SU71E  are  indicative  of  this  unusual  story  and  the  more 
unusual  point  of  view.  "I  had  a  story  to  tell,"  wrote  the 
author.  "I  have  told  it  as  well  as  I  knew  how — that 
ought  to  be  enough,  and  more  than  enough,  for  me  to  say 
about  this  book.  But  some  have  decreed,  with  what 
wisdom  I  do  not  pretend  to  measure,  that  this  subject  and 
that,  very  urgent  though  they  may  be  in  the  life  of  man, 
shall  not  be  written  or  read  about  in  books  designed 
merely  for  the  entertainment  of  his  mind.  I  have  disobeyed 
this  decree,  and  cast  a  great  part  of  my  tale  in  a  region  held 
to  be  out  of  bounds — Bohemia." 

It  IT  a  story  of  Bohemia,  but  written  with  the  healthy 
enthusiasm  of  youth  for  all  there  is  in  life.  Much  of  the 
greatest  the  world  has  produced  in  art  and  literature  has 
been  born  of  the  Montmarte  and  the  Quartier  Latin,  but 
little  of  worth  has  been  written  about  them.  Murger's 
"La  Vie  de  Boheme"  was  a  great  romance.  Here  is  a  fine, 
realistic  novel. — "Nk  creator  nk  crealura  mai — fu  senza 
amore." 

"It  is  tense,  strong,  narrative,  and  descriptive  writing 
of  a  sort  that  is  wholly  admirable." — London  Graphic. 

"Mr.  Young  blends  the  artistic  with  the  realistic  and 
conjures  up  scenes  which  can  never  be  forgotten  by  the 
reader,  and  no  greater  praise  than  that  could  be  given  to 
a  writer."-—  Western  Morning  News,  Plymouth,  England. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


-±M-~ 


•' 


U  U 


DECS 


27Feb 


-bt3- 


MAR  H 


1983- 


LD  21A-50m-4,'60 
(A9562slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


973266 


•fr 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


